


Mind's Eye Blind

by Sperare



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angry Erik, Erik has Feelings, Extortion, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Control, Murder, Protective Erik, Sensory Deprivation, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard, SubtlyBAMF!Charles, protective Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sperare/pseuds/Sperare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as Erik is concerned, if you want to scare a person into talking, you have to present him with something more compelling than what he stands to lose...</p><p>And there is nothing in the world more compelling than Charles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Mr. Lehnsherr. Do you know why you’re here?”  
  
No doubt he does. And, ever since this mess broke wide open, he’s utterly failed to bother to even pretend to care.  
  
Of all the suspects that Moira has ever interviewed, Erik Lehnsherr may, in some ways, be the most startling—and that’s a pretty bold statement. Terrorists, mobsters, child rapists—they told her all about how to handle those when she entered the CIA, but the man in front of her now would twist every instructor she ever had up into psychiatric knots. He isn’t… _motivated_ : dispassionate expression; dull, hazy, bloodshot eyes, as though he hasn’t slept in days; and a casual sprawl. He isn’t affecting boredom—he truly _does not care_.  
  
Or, rather, he doesn’t care about _this_.  
  
She’s interrogated dozens of people who have feigned indifference, but, excepting true psychopaths, which Lehnsherr is not, this man may just be the first who has really _convinced_ her.  
  
“Mr. Lehnsherr.” No response. Is he even breathing? “Are you listening to me?”  
  
Finally a little life: he tilts his head in her direction, deigning to pull his eyes away from the far wall that he’s been staring at for the better part of the last ten minutes. A little less blinking and she’d have been tempted to get her superiors on the phone and ask why they’d stuck her in here with a corpse. It’s morbidly telling that, in comparison to Lehnsherr, the corpse may actually be the better conversation partner.  
  
He twitches an eyebrow up toward his hairline, and it doesn’t matter that he’s spent the last twenty-four hours detained in a holding cell, the bastard pulls it off better than any mob boss drowning in millions ever did. “Mmm?”  
  
He has to be joking. If it wouldn’t get her tossed out faster than she could appeal the decision, she’d slam her folder across that calm, taunting, too-perfect I-just-don’t-care mix of perfect that he wears for a face. See if he manages to have a pulse like the rest of humanity _then_. “Are you listening to me?”  
  
No more than he has to, clearly: he full-out arches his eyebrow, but beyond crossing his ankle over his knee and leaning back more deeply into the chair—no easy feat considering the Spartan plastic chairs the department provides—he hardly reacts.  
  
At least he doesn’t react _right away_. The seconds tick, silent, but so conspicuous that it would be easy to believe he’s counting them off in his brain and somehow kicking back at her with the sound. Probably he really _is_ counting: he watches her, flicking his gaze up and down her body. It wouldn’t be the first time a perp has made a pass at her, but… that gaze doesn’t strike her as lecherous. Only assessing.  
  
“Were you finally saying something interesting?” he eventually asks, voice so gravelly that it could sand the highways in the winter, no problem. Does the man simply talk so little, or—it doesn’t look like he’s been choked, or maybe he hasn’t slept in days? The last one might match with the bloodshot gaze and the distraction. But… drugs, possibly? No—his blood work came back clean.  
  
“You _ought_ to find it interesting.” She flips open the folder in front of her, relishing the satisfying smack it makes on the hard metal of the table. Stainless steel, bolted to the floor. “A dead government official—and you, Mr. Lehnsherr, spotted leaving the building.”  
  
He hums again, equally as noncommittal as the first time.  
  
Some men crack when shown pictures of their crimes—and not necessarily out of guilt. Murders, rapists—sometimes it gets them hot, seeing their own work. Lehnsherr, though, he hardly even blinks when she pushes a photo of the dead official toward him. Nothing, and… it doesn’t feel like it’s for the same reasons she’s seen from some of the others. Lehnsherr might not care, but—he doesn’t seem like a sociopath, and… she’s going to need something better to go on than just a gut feeling. Doesn’t make it any less true, though. Just downright impossible to prove.  
  
Lehnsherr _cares_. It’s there. She just can’t say _why_ she knows. She can’t even say _what_ he cares about. Only that he does.  
  
As starting points go, it’s a pretty poor one.  
  
“If your prints turn up in that office—“  
  
He drums his fingers against the table. “They won’t.”  
  
“How can you—?“  
  
Which, apparently, is finally the limit of his not inconsiderable patience: he drops his knee and leans forward; the plastic of the chair squeaks and groans under his weight. “Agent McTaggert.” He’s smiling, and not nicely: that expression could freeze the Sahara. “Are you going to charge me with anything?”  
  
“This is a questioning—“  
  
“So, no.”  
  
Despite wearing a three-piece suit, the man hasn’t broken a sweat—and it can’t all be down to the frankly atrocious excuse for air conditioning. But, no signs of stress whatsoever: he merely watches her carefully, eyes clearer now as he crosses his arms across his chest, forcing the fabric of his jacket to crease at the insides of his elbows. “Either charge me with something or let me leave.”  
  
“In a hurry to be somewhere else?”  
  
But she’s already lost him. He’s right: they _don’t_ have anything to hold him on. There’s just a shitload of circumstantial evidence—the kind that won’t get them a conviction or even an arrest, but that will still keep them up at night, thinking, stabbing themselves in the brain with it, tortured by knowing who did it, and knowing the suspect knows they know, but that they can’t _prove_ it _._  
  
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do have somewhere to be.”  
  
“And if I told you we _did_ have enough to hold you?”  
  
He rolls his eyes. “Then what? You threaten me with jail?”  
  
“For someone who’s never been to prison, you’re awfully cavalier about it. By all accounts, it’s not a nice place.”  
  
Even Lehnsherr’s sigh sounds like he’s can’t be bothered. “So you tell me, Agent MacTaggert.” Oddly, he doesn’t say her name like most of her male superiors: he’s condescending to her, yes, and he isn’t taking her seriously, but there’s no sense that he’s doing it on account of her gender. There’s no telltale flush or smirk when he looks her up and down, and, once he’s done, his eyes linger on her face before drifting off toward the opposite wall. He could be scanning her for weapons, for all the satisfaction he’s getting out of it. God only knows, that may be what he’s doing.  
  
Gun in a shoulder holster and a knife on her hip, but he doesn’t actually need to know that.  
  
He might _already_ know that.  
  
Damn it.  
  
“I’m not getting paid enough to sit here and watch you examine the wall, Lehnsherr.” Yes, fine, she’s reaching the end of her patience too. But this man is _infuriating._ “What’s your play? Everyone has one: what’s yours?”  
  
This time both brows shoot for his hairline, disappearing up under the flop of brown hair that’s fallen down into his face. A day or so ago, it might have been neatly combed back, but it’s since wilted, as exhausted as the rest of him, though his mannerisms bury it well. “Do people normally just tell you when you ask?”  
  
No. But it was worth a try. Nothing else has worked with him. “Occasionally.”  
  
That smirk of his is just another way of saying that he knows she’s lying, but he doesn’t call her on it—contents himself instead with digging his arms into the gray material of his suit, creasing it over his biceps. “Could we wrap this up?”  
  
“Tight schedule?”  
  
“Better things to do. Face it, MacTaggert: if you want a person to tell you what you want to know, you have to give them a reason to talk. A payoff, a threat—take your pick. You have neither.”  
  
Because looming isn’t working, she pushes her own chair back—same substandard make as his—and settles herself down in it, planting her hands over the folder in front of her. “You honestly think there’s nothing we can do to you, Lehnsherr?”  
  
And the man honest-to-god _smiles_ —wide and bitter and with far more teeth than should possibly be able to fit in one mouth. “There is nothing—take me very seriously when I say this— _nothing_ that you can do to me that is enough to matter. You think I don’t care? I _do_ care. More than you could possibly know. But not about the things _you_ want me to care about.”  
  
This is progress, at least. More than she’s gotten out of him since they entered this room. “Sounds like you care about the wrong things.”  
  
He huffs, and, if possible, his smile turns bitterer. “If you want to scare a person into talking, you have to present him with something more compelling than what he stands to lose. Until you can do that, kindly do me the favor of not wasting any more of my time.”  
  
Sounds like he knows exactly what it takes. Though, given the mess of blood on the government official, it’s not out of the realm of possibilities that Lehnsherr is very good indeed at _compelling_ people to tell him what he needs to know. “And what’s stopping you from talking—what could be so bad that it makes jail and possible execution pale in comparison?”  
  
His lips twitch, and he fixes her with a long-suffering stare. “New York doesn’t have the death penalty.”  
  
Of course he checked. Wonderful. Forethought is always a nice addition to a collage of destructive criminal talent. “You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“I believe—“ He taps a finger down onto the table, _tap, tap, tap_ , only barely considering her out of the corner of his eye, “that’s the point.”  
  
Well, damn.  
  
She closes the folder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, folks. Heed the warnings.

After the dysfunctional excuse for modern engineering that passes as an elevator has eaten up nearly a minute of his time just making it halfway up the building, Erik is very seriously tempted to scrap the whole thing—literally—and move the machine himself. Every cable, every beam, each sheet of metal—the whole mess thrums with a nervous energy that matches his own, desperate to strain toward him with the same intensity he uses to call the metal to his command. All mutants, as far as he can tell, are a little like that: their gifts _sing_.  
  
Charles is like that, blocking out thoughts, rather than actively reaching out to read them as most people think he does. Ridiculous, the way the majority of people conceive of such a beautiful, spectacular mutation. But, then, it’s hardly surprising that the world could never understand anything as astounding as Charles, not when they’re so dull in comparison.  
  
Besides, he thinks miserably, smacking his hand against the gleaming metal of the elevator wall, as Charles likes to remind him, Erik has never understood the world either.  
  
Not that he wants to.  
  
Whether he wants it or not, though, most days he understands it well enough to be getting on with, no matter what Charles says. Like this substandard elevator—why is it taking so _long_?—that’s doing its best to _crawl_ up the walls, the rest of humanity will never do him any favors. He understands that _very_ well. They don’t _care_ , and if Charles could see that, he’d be better off, safer, his mental state so much less of a perpetual worry for Erik—and what a favor that would be, given that he already has to worry about Charles’ physical well-being too.  
  
But then he wouldn’t be Charles, and that intrinsic hope—  
  
Erik squeezes his eyes shut and mops the sweat off his brow, heedless of the damage it will do to his suit. He didn’t sweat at all during the interview, which isn’t all that surprising: the nerves hadn’t kicked in until after he’d left, and even then it hadn’t had anything to do with the questions being asked—only that it had taken so damn _long_. During that time—the things that could have happened during that time, what could have—  
  
What could be happening _now_ , while this elevator climbs.  
  
Damn it all.  
  
Shaw could afford a better elevator, and that thought alone is enough prompt him into jabbing his finger vindictively into the button again. More than likely, Shaw purposely designed this confounded metal cage to operate at a snail’s pace, precisely because he knew what it would do to Erik.  
  
Hell, if he never gets away from these games, he’s going to crack one day, going to do more than wipe sweat off his brow—and Shaw better be picking up the dry cleaning. Erik isn’t paying for that. He’ll go to the next job in a dirty suit if he has to, sweat stains and all. Any money he’s managed to pick up—put it toward dry cleaning? No. Charles has been eyeing a genetics textbook, and, really, it’s sweet how he doesn’t consider that Erik might check his browsing history. It’s only natural that he would: Charles isn’t particularly subtle when he stares at the screen with that faded longing that he only ever gets with simple things he knows he should be able to have—that normal people could have. That look could break Erik’s heart and melt it all at the same time, and it certainly could induce him to find a way to get Charles what he wants. God only knows _why_ Charles wants it, when the book itself is an awful behemoth of a text that could double as an assault weapon if one were to hit an assailant clear away with it. Dry as dust and every bit as dull. But Charles _wants_ it, so he will _have_ it, so much as it is in Erik’s power.  
  
Finally— _finally_ —the elevator creeks to a stop, and, as much out of reflex as concentrated thought, Erik straightens up: shoulders back, jaw clenched, chin up, and that special—terrifying, Charles would tell him—ability that he’s learned from childhood to keep his face blank. _Your eyes look dead_ Charles always says. _I don’t like it._  
  
Maybe not. But it’s necessary.  
  
Heralded by a sharp ding, the doors to the elevator peel backward, releasing Erik from the metal box and into a thin hallway with stark white walls. The distance isn’t a long one, and it’s a matter of five or so steps on a plush, carpeted red floor before he’s reached the door at the other end.  
  
Knocking became superfluous years ago. There’s nothing that he could walk in on that Shaw isn’t happy for him to witness. As twisted as he is—and there’s no measure in the world capable of gauging what he is—he _wants_ Erik to see.  
  
So be it, then: Erik tosses the door open, ribs aching with the force of holding in his breath, waiting to see what’s beyond, and praying, praying—don’t let it be one of the bad days, where Charles is truly hurt. He hadn’t meant to get caught, and Charles shouldn’t have to pay for it, but Shaw—  
  
Erik exhales evenly, grinding anger replacing crippling fear.  
  
Comparatively, today is rather tame.  
  
Tame, of course, does not mean _good,_ and Erik has never been particularly subtle about that—or anything, really, which is why he hadn’t bothered with worrying whether or not the door crashed back into the wall. Shaw is hardly bothered either, and while his eyes drift to the source of the sound, he’s already begun turning toward Erik even before the noise ricochets through the room.  
  
“Erik.” Pleasant, like this has any chance in hell of being amicable, smiling wide and wedging his foot against the edge of the desk in front of him, pushing off and rotating the swivel chair in which he’s seated.  
  
Perched on Shaw’s lap, Charles visibly sucks in a deep breath.  
  
Well, he _would_ do that: he knows the routine by now.  
  
No visible cuts today, eyes a little red but not overly so—Shaw probably didn’t give him drugs again, thank god—hands tied in front of him but with good color in his fingers, shirt on but unbuttoned and wrinkled, and shoes gone. But he’s well enough to scowl around the gag—looks like it was probably Erik’s own necktie, once upon a time—in his mouth and to meet Erik’s eyes with reasonable composure.  
  
One blink with both eyes, then another with just the right.  
  
Ah. Physically unharmed, and only oral this time. Surprising, considering Erik’s minor slip-up with the cameras.  
  
Speaking of which: “We’ve just been watching the footage of you being arrested,” Shaw tells him brightly. “Haven’t we, Charles?” He jostles Charles lightly, squeezing with the right arm that’s hooked around Charles’ waist, not hard enough to hurt, but in a parody of intimacy, which is, somehow, always worse—at least for Charles.  
  
Trust Shaw to know.  
  
They’ve probably been seated like that for a decent stretch of time, judging by Charles’ position on the edge of the chair, between Shaw’s legs rather than perched on his thighs. Small as he is, Charles is sturdy enough that he isn’t overly light: Shaw must have found himself losing circulation, or he might simply have placed Charles there from the get-go.  
  
Charles, predictably for a man gagged, doesn’t answer Shaw’s prompting with anything more than a particularly disapproving snort and a toss of his head that ends with his chin higher than it was previously. Bless him: he manages derisive so well. Better than Erik. But, then, he’s rather inclined to think that Charles is his better in most ways.  
  
“Let me have him.” He takes a step forward. Careful, careful….  
  
Shaw’s eyebrow arches. “Now, you know that’s not how you ask. And I think we have a few things to discuss first.”  
  
Someday—soon, let it be _soon_ —Shaw’s blood is going to _shine_ where Erik smears it across the floor. Shaw will scream; bit by bit, bone by bone; and nerve by scraped, tortured nerve, for daring ever to touch Charles this way—for daring to use Charles, to treat him like he’s anything less than the astounding, perfect being that he is. Shaw isn’t worthy to worship the ground Charles walks on, let alone to desecrate it, and there will come a time where he’ll pay for thinking otherwise. There are two hundred and six bones in the human body, and, when the time comes, Erik will _stretch_ that time, make it last, bend every last one of those bones until they snap and splinter.  
  
Eventually. Not soon enough.  
  
Around the gag, Charles’ lips turn down. _/I can feel you hating/_ he chides, disapproving as ever. _/I’ve had rather enough of cruelty in the last thirty-six hours, as you well know. Perhaps something more pleasant, love? I’ve missed you, you know./_  
  
Which really just means Charles is feeling starved for affection and anything resembling kindness. How remarkable: the two of them will never be anything alike in this, thankfully. It’s good, in a way, that, unlike Charles, he can feel ice all over, closing him off from feeling much of anything. Anger gets the job done; rage is even better. Anything else—if he didn’t have Charles, it wouldn’t matter, when it’s been so thoroughly stamped out of him.  
  
 _/I don’t believe that./_  
  
Fine. Anything Charles wants. Always what he wants, when Erik has the power to give it: belief is nothing. Charles can believe whatever good things he likes of him: a sweet quirk of that mouth, a gentle embrace, coffee made just right—Charles might be the only one to ever make those beliefs true.  
  
 _/You’re better than you think you are./_  
  
Well, no, but Erik still gives him the equivalent of a mental nudge—tweak of his mind, really, and all affection. _/Never for anyone else, Charles. Don’t be blind./_  
  
 _/I’m not. And you like that I see the best in you. Now… maybe you could play along? I’d like him to leave, Erik. I want you to hold me./_  
  
Once upon a time, when they’d first been thrown together, Charles hadn’t been so blunt about what he needed. But… in a situation like this, where they play enough games with everyone else in the world, there’s really no point in being anything less than frank with each other. They will only ever get what they need from each other.  
  
“You know, boys,” Shaw drawls, drying out the words, and—that’s it. Trap set and sprung. Too long a conversation—damn it. He and Charles know better than to give themselves away like that. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “It’s impolite to hold a conversation that others can’t hear.”  
  
Oh, hell, _no_ —and he’s already moving forward, arm outstretched— “Don’t—“  
  
But Shaw’s hand is up in Charles’ hair, shoving him forward—looks like slow-motion, seeing Charles’ head rush down, down—smacking into the surface of the desk with a dull _thunk_. A muffled grown—stifled by the gag—leaks out in the space of silence that follows.  
  
His fault. All his fault. If he’d been less obvious….  
  
“Charles….” As strangled as his voice sounds, it’s a miracle that he gets the word out at all.  
  
Shaw laughs, yanking Charles upward, giving his head a little push when he untangles his hand from Charles’ hair. “Relax.” Charles’ head bobs forward, but he does eventually manage to draw the muscles in his neck tight again well enough to loll his head into a general upward position, despite how he tilts a little toward the side. It must be instinct by now, the way that, even dazed, his eyes seek out Erik, clinging on with an iron gaze that’s hazed with pain but very, very sure of what it’s fixing on. “He’s fine, Erik, honestly. I know he’s pretty, but he isn’t _delicate_. You’re far too protective.”  
  
Yes, imagine not enjoying the site of harm coming to the one person in his life about whom he actually gives a fuck. Not everyone likes his lovers bloodied—and there is _nothing_ to enjoy about the sight of blood trailing from the right upper side of Charles’ forehead and down his temple. It collects at the edge of his chin, beading up before growing heavy enough to slide to the underside and slink down the line of his throat.  
  
 _/Are you all right?/_ he thinks at Charles.  
  
 _/Yes./_  
  
That won’t last for long unless they give Shaw what he’s waiting for. In this case, the onus is on Erik. “You said we had things to talk about,” he tells Shaw as coolly as he can manage. He was so good at feeling nothing during the interview—why does it come surging back now, when he needs detachment the most? “I’m waiting.”  
  
In some ways, it might be better if he were less like himself—Charles is right to label him stubborn—and more quiescent. His sharpness amuses Shaw in certain aspects, riles him in others, but always, always makes for friction. The air is filled with it now, rough as sandpaper everywhere it touches Erik’s open skin.  
  
In this instance, Shaw just laughs and reaches out the arm not holding Charles in order to tilt the computer screen in Erik’s direction. Figures that he isn’t careful about it, leaving smears on the screen: it’s Erik’s computer.  
  
Worse yet, on the screen is his own face, half turned to profile, in the grainy black and white of a security camera. Both his hands have been pulled behind his back by the officer who had taken him in, and he’s leaned up against a police car, the officer patting him down for weapons. Thank god he doesn’t carry a gun—doesn’t _need_ one.  
  
“I expect that you’ll explain this.” Shaw tips his head in the direction of the screen.  
  
“I don’t think there’s much to explain. I did what you said: gave the colonel an ultimatum, and when Hendry proved that he had outlived his usefulness, I killed him. My intel was incomplete: he was clearly expecting some sort of attack. Security was heavier than it should have been.”  
  
“And you couldn’t outmaneuver a few humans? Honestly, Erik if you can’t problem-solve….”  
  
Problem-solve. Right. Evade forty or so men—give or take a few semi-automatics—who weren’t supposed to be there, without having the benefit of a building plan or any sort of guard rotation timetable. Of course.  
  
Very deliberately, he swallows, pushing the persistent itch of rage down with the saliva that’s pooling too quickly in his mouth. Rage and serenity, rage and serenity, and only one of those will be of any use at present. Too much of the other is only going to put Charles in a position to be harmed—not that he isn’t there already.  
  
“They have nothing on me that isn’t vague and circumstantial.”  
  
Shaw chuckles and squeezes Charles around the middle, leaning in—damn him, he’s doing this to rile Erik, that’s all it is—kissing Charles’ hairline, right above his ear, all on the basis of infuriating Erik.  
  
It’s working.  
  
“What do you think, pretty?” Shaw breathes into Charles hair, pressing another kiss there, then working lower, trailing lips against his sideburn and down his cheek. As gentle as he’s being at the moment, one might mistake him for a lover—“mistake” being the operative word. “You have a very high opinion of Erik’s skills: do you think he could have done better?”  
  
Shaw can’t see how Charles shutters his eyes closed, but Erik can, and he knows all too well what it means: revulsion, fear, and endless patience, the likes of which only Charles could possibly possess.  
  
All of that, while Erik stands nearly ten feet away, watching—Charles is shivering—because anything else will only make things worse. They’ve learned that the hard way.  
  
And, somewhere along the line, Erik has learned to beg. Not for himself—never for himself—but for Charles he’ll do it.  
  
“Don’t hurt him,” he says quietly. “There’s no reason to—“  
  
“Did you tell them anything?” In the space of just a few seconds, Shaw’s voice has chilled, and though his cheek remains pressed to Charles’ hair, his arms encircling him tenderly, his playful joviality—though it was always sharp at the edges—has vanished.  
  
Erik tilts his chin up and tucks his hands behind his back. _Please, please…_ “Not a thing.”  
  
“But they knew to ask. Because you got caught, they now have a trail to follow.”  
  
No. Damn it, don’t bring Charles into this—no erasing trails, nothing like that… “They have nothing. Altering their thoughts would create more of a disturbance than already exists.”  
  
“Oh? So you’re admitting you left something that needs altering?”  
  
Shit. “ _No.”_  
  
Shaw quirks a brow. “That’s not what it sounded like.”  
  
“Then you’re hearing things that aren’t there.”  
  
“Right now, I’m hearing your insolence. I would have thought you’d have a higher regard for Charles’ wellbeing.”  
  
The very highest. But—  
  
 _[Don’t be stupid: he’s baiting you. He’s frustrated that everything didn’t go seamlessly, and he’s going to hurt me regardless of anything you say in the next few minutes: you know the best we can do now is to try to mitigate the damage.]_  
  
Charles never used to be such a realist. Probably it’s a sign of the times that he’s become this way, and, in some way that would hurt to examine too closely, this too is likely Erik’s fault.  
  
 _[It’s Shaw’s fault, and you know it.]_  
  
 _[He hurts you because of_ me _.]_  
  
 _[And he hurts_ you _because of_ me. _But I don’t see you blaming_ me _for_ your _pain._ ]  
  
With a put-upon sigh, Shaw uncurls his hands from Charles’ cardigan and drops them down to his hips. He could never look at home touching Charles, big hands spanning his hips not nearly as naturally as when Erik does it. Shaw will always be an imposter to Charles’ body. _Always._  
  
 _[Of course.]_ Charles blinks at him, eyelashes sweeping against his cheek, kissing the skin: it may be projection, but Charles has always been uncannily good at talking with his physicality, and there’s the definite sense that, right now, it’s meant to convey affection same as an actual kiss would. _[He’s unwelcome unless I say otherwise, and it isn’t as though I’d ever give him permission. I doubt he’d even want it.]_  
  
No, he wouldn’t.  
  
Consent is so important once it’s been taken away: it’s the absence more than the existence that really makes it mean something. Shaw _knows_ that.  
  
Unfortunately, Charles has never had the luxury of consent—not since he’s been very young. But he still says what he means in the defiant tilt of his chin, that sharp spark in his bright blue eyes—the whiteness of his knuckles where he’s clenched his hands into fists, despite his wrists being bound.  
  
“Well, Erik?”  
  
No suitable answer comes to mind, and he opens his mouth to answer anyway, but closes it again at the last second. If he’s going to answer, it needs some actual consideration.  
  
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he finally replies, darting out his tongue to wet his lips. They’re chapped. Too much time spent biting at them. Such a nervous habit—a stupid one, and too much of a tell, but he can’t seem to suppress it.  
  
Shaw’s lips curl. The bastard is enjoying leaving him like this, Charles’ wellbeing twirling on a very breakable string in front of him. “You can start by telling me why you always leave messes for Charles,” He bumps his cheek against Charles’ in a parody of affection, “to clean up.” And, because he can, because he’s cruel enough, he locks eyes with Erik and watches him with an acidic, self-satisfied meanness that shouldn’t be possible, as he walks his fingers down Charles’ abdomen, grinning when Charles’ stiffens, and then splays them wide directly over Charles’ crotch.  
  
Not _again_. Not when they were so close to making it out of this with nothing worse than a blowjob.  
  
As pressure is slowly applied—and Erik knows that horrible, arousing pressure, has felt those hands on his own cock, though not nearly as often as Charles has—Charles’ eyes widen. His gaze darts to the side, and his nostrils flare with the increase of breath, but he quickly snaps his eyes back to Erik, blinking too quickly. Damn it, that’s desperation, and Erik can’t do a thing to help.  
  
“Charles will have to fix your mess,” Shaw says, sounding almost bored, as though he isn’t massaging Charles’ cock through his pants. “But we’ll take care of that in a few days. In the meantime, what do you think we should do to reckon for this little slip-up of yours?”  
  
Being given an option where the choices aren’t really choices at all is the worst of all, but it’s the only kind of consent with which Shaw is familiar.  
  
Protesting that he doesn’t deserve to be punished won’t get either of them anywhere, but with his heart beating a rabbit’s pace in his chest, his temples throbbing and his breath locked up, he can’t think. Every time, after all this time, and it’s still like this.  
  
Charles. Being harmed. He can’t _think._  
  
 _I will tear him apart, feed him his own cock until he chokes on it, show him how it feels to—_  
  
 _[You will_ not _. You are—and will continue to be—the better man.]_  
  
He snaps his eyes open. When had he closed them? But there’s Charles, staring at him, eyes a little wet, red-rimmed, and he’s heaving for breath, but with a calmer gaze than Erik’s own must be, judging by Shaw’s vicious smirk.  
  
“No suggestions, Erik?”  
  
This is what he meant when he’d told MacTaggert that she could never threaten him with anything worse than what’s keeping him quiet. One slip-up, something that wasn’t his fault, and this is what Shaw is doing: if he ever willingly talked, the venom in those eyes might just eat him—and, more importantly, Charles—alive.  
  
Eventually, someday, it won’t be like this, and Shaw will be dead, and Charles won’t have to endure this anymore.  
  
 _[Neither will you, love.]_  
  
Erik curls his toes viciously into the soles of his shoes until the joints scream. Pain is good. Pain keeps his mind clear. _[You’re more important.]_  
  
If he died taking Shaw down, it would be worth it, so long as Charles were safe. Frankly, it’s probably what will happen. And, looking at Shaw, at his sharp features and sharper smirk, how he slows down and palms a bit harder when he knows Erik is looking, how he traces a finger up the seam of Charles’ pants, pausing at the zipper and easing it down—death will be an acceptable price as long as he takes Shaw to Hell with him.  
  
 _[If you die, I’ll follow you. When have I ever not followed you? Is that—damn it, is that what you want?]_  
  
Charles’ mental voice is turning thready, as earnest as always, but affected by the physical. His eyes are too wet now, reflecting even bigger, even bluer, than they already are.  
  
“No? No suggestions?” Abruptly, Shaw removes his hand and leans back in the chair. Charles is pulled along with him, back into his chest, and, seconds later, by his neck, when Shaw wraps his newly freed hand there, directly under Charles’ jaw. “I’ll help you then: I think—mmm, yes, let me see—“ He squeezes and Charles chokes. Erik’s foot twitches, dying to lunge forward—but he knows, all too well, what Shaw would do, and easing frayed nerves is easier than cleaning smears of blood left on the wall from Charles’ impact, or, heaven forbid, tears in places he doesn’t want to think about. “Tell you what: either Charles stays with me for those days in between now and when he fixes the problem… or I dislocate both his thumbs. Your choice.”  
  
Either Shaw gets off on Charles, or he makes sure Erik doesn’t, in a manner of speaking. Honestly, does he think Erik cares if Charles can’t jerk him off, can’t properly touch him? He _does_ , but it isn’t the main thing, and it isn’t like Shaw thinks. If Charles could never touch him again, he’d still love him. But a dislocated thumb hurts, and it might put Charles in danger if he has to do anything physical when he goes to wipe minds in a few days….  
  
 _[So would a rectal tear, love. Better be the thumbs.]_  
  
Fucking hell, when has it come to this? And Charles—good, sweet Charles, talking about mutilation and rape in pragmatic terms.  
  
“Well, Erik?” Shaw tilts his head, flexing his hand again. Charles’s face is blooming red, and his eyes are watering something awful, enough that it’s spilling over and collecting in the shallow dips beneath his eyes. “Ten seconds, or I’ll do them both.”  
  
No choice at all. But he has to make one.  
  
“Thumbs,” he croaks out. He hates choosing. So much, he _hates having to choose._  
  
But that’s the point, isn’t it? Shaw wants to make him hate choice.  
  
Shaw’s lips pinch, stifling the smirk into false gravity. “Good choice, son.”  
  
Softly: “I’m not your son.” Any louder and he might vomit along with the words.  
  
If Shaw hears him, he doesn’t acknowledge it: he’s too occupied with—bloody hell, the bastard is being almost tender, unwinding the cloth ties—another necktie, which means Shaw’s been in his wardrobe again—at Charles’ wrists and rubbing at the flesh beneath. The skin is marked red, and there are bruises, but Charles knows better than to struggle now.  
  
“Ready?” Shaw asks Charles kindly, taking his right hand in his own, pressing at the palm until Charles’ hand spreads wide. Charles doesn’t answer, and he’s looking away. Even when Shaw raises that hand to his own lips and, oh, god, _kisses_ it, he keeps his eyes on the far wall, away from everything—even Erik.  
  
 _[Because I don’t want you to see it in my eyes when it hurts. I know what it does to you.]_  
  
Of the two of them, Charles is _not_ the one who should feel the need to be strong right now. Whatever gave him that idea, it was wrong.  
  
 _[Don’t look, Erik. Look away, not enough that he’ll notice, but… to the side, maybe. You don’t need to see this.]_  
  
But that isn’t right. _[Yes, I do. This is—it’s my fault, and if you have to suffer, I’ll be strong enough to watch.]_  
  
The first thumb comes out of place easily. It would: Shaw’s use of energy is, or would be, under other circumstances, astounding. Under _these_ circumstances, it’s just appalling, and Erik witnesses every second of it: how could Charles ever think he’d look away and leave him to suffer this on his own?  
  
The pop, though—the pop turns Erik’s stomach, flipping it over, and he’s so close to vomiting—swallow, swallow against it, not now, it can’t happen now—  
  
 _[Oh, Charles, darling, sorry, sorry—_ ]  
  
But Charles just jerks, yelping behind the gag—and it’s cruel to gag him when he’s panting so hard for breath and his nose is plugging up from the crying. That needs to be the first thing once Erik gets him back, if only Shaw would hurry up.  
  
“Good job, little one,” Shaw mutters, kissing Charles’ cheek. “One more. Thank Erik for this later, won’t you?”  
  
This time, Shaw doesn’t make it quick: he bends the finger back slowly, enjoying the slowly increasing volume of Charles’ noises—he’s trying so hard to hold them in, but he’s losing some of them out his mouth—the way that, eventually, he can’t stand it anymore, and he begins twisting against Shaw, one hand useless and the other trapped. He’s hurting himself more, trying to claw at Shaw with that injured hand. Completely Shaw’s goal, of course.  
  
Shaw finally does end it, pulling the joint out of the socket and then dropping the hand immediately after.  
  
It falls, damaged, into Charles’ lap, while the other drifts down to meet it, as Charles, face now streaked with tears and a trail of mucus on his upper lip, shuts his eyes and shudders, struggling for air. From where he’s standing, Erik can hear him, fighting to breathe past the congestion as it rattles around wetly with his breath.  
  
A kinder man might have pushed Charles off him, let this be done with, but Shaw has just proved he isn’t that man. Instead, he stands, gathering Charles up with him, brushing the hair out of his eyes and bending down to kiss his forehead tenderly. Charles at least has the presence of mind to glare at him: two sharp circles of blue ringed in red, but narrowed, and with such venom that Shaw laughs. “Twenty-five and you still glare like a child,” he says. “But, then, Erik hasn’t outgrown it even at twenty-nine, so I don’t suppose I should hold out much hope for you either. We do, after all, know where you pick up most of your bad habits.” When Charles’ expression still doesn’t change, he laughs again, gathering Charles in against him and tucking his chin over the top of Charles’ head. Slowly, he sets about rubbing his back. “There now, darling boy, it’s all right.”  
  
It will be, no thanks to Shaw. But, Erik vows, burning from the inside out—and he’s flushed, he can feel it—he and Charles will always make it, will always find a way to be all right.  
  
“Let me have him.” Is that his voice? He sounds _wrecked_.  
  
Shaw sighs. “Yes, all right, Erik. Always so impatient.”  
  
What Shaw didn’t do earlier, he finally does now: he drops his arms from around Charles, planting his hands against him and giving one good shove. Charles, unequipped to handle it, stagers, catching the top of his foot against his ankle and toppling, staggering to his knees and—oh, _Charles_ : he catches himself with his hands.  
  
Even behind the gag, his scream is obviously pained.  
  
Erik is at his side before he can recall moving. Shaw’s laughter rings in his ears, and he’s there in the corner of Erik’s vision—the black of his suit catches in Erik’s sight—moving past them both, heedless of the fact that he’s broken a man’s hands, and continuing on his way. Slow, measured steps, but won’t he just _leave_ already—and, yes, finally. The door clicks shut behind him. Not even a slam—but, then, why would he? He’s gotten everything that he wants.  
  
Charles is shaking, but he lets Erik take his weight, sinking in against him with a boundless trust that is, even after all these years, still so shatteringly astounding. Why Charles trusts him so much, god only knows, but approximately three days after Erik had first had a skinny eleven-year-old shoved into his cell with him, Charles had elected to put his faith in Erik. The large and the small, from nightmares to cleaning up the aftermath of rape—Charles has always possessed an amazing amount of trust in Erik.  
  
 _[I’ve never regretted it.]_  
  
As beaten up as Charles is, it’s a testament to the strength of his ability that he can manage to project so calmly. That doesn’t mean he should have to. “Hush,” Erik murmurs, brushing a kiss down the side of his face, dragging his lips over the stubble there—he must not have shaved during Erik’s absence—while his finger begins tugging at the knot at the back of Charles’ head. When it doesn’t immediately come loose, he throws his power open wide and waits for the first metal thing that jumps to his hand.  
  
He doesn’t wait long: they don’t have much in their quarters, meaning it’s probably best not to destroy that which they do have, but he can’t really muster much of an apology for destroying the computer chair. After what he just saw of Shaw sitting in it, he probably would have decimated it anyway. Unfortunately, it’s only the base of the four-pronged wheeled platform that is metal. The base is enough, though, and it jumps to his hand, already forming into a blade before it gets there. By the time he actually gets a grip on it, he’s already moving to slice through the swath of cloth.  
  
Despite the knife that descends quickly toward him, Charles doesn’t flinch, but only keeps on with his shaky attempts to breathe. It’s gratifying that he manages a little better once the tie, after having first being used to wipe the mess of blood and mucus off his face, has been discarded to the side, wet with Charles’ salvia and irreparably mangled.  
  
Thankfully, not everything that’s been mangled is equally as irreparable.  
  
“You’ve got to put the joints back,” Charles chokes out, descending into a fit of coughing. All of the clogged mess from being gagged—the sound of his hacking is the best proof that it’s physically breaking up and giving Charles back his breath. Thank you, thank you….  
  
Still, Charles is right: both his thumbs are dislocated, and they do need to be put back into place. Erik is no doctor, but he’s good enough—has had to be over the years. A few years back he even managed to convince Shaw to let him take an EMT course, solely on the basis that it would be useful to have someone with medical knowledge on hand if anything were to happen during some of their more… team-based operations. Shaw may be a sadist, but he does care if his people bleed out or come to lasting harm: no one breaks his toys but him, and, strangely, even he takes care to see that no lasting physical damage persists.  
  
Granted, if Erik didn’t know how to fix Charles up, Shaw might have bothered to get him a real doctor… but it would be one on Shaw’s payroll, and both he and Charles agreed a long time ago that neither of them is keen to go under the hands of Shaw’s doctors.  
  
That doesn’t mean the alternative is pleasant.  
  
“We can wait a few minutes until you catch your breath,” Erik tells him. Frankly? He’s not looking forward to putting Charles back together. The idea of causing him _more_ pain….  
  
Charles twitches a little in the aftermath of what looks to be the last of his coughs. “It’ll be worse if I think about it. You know that. Do it.”  
  
Worse, yes, but pretty bad right now. Already the joints are swelling up, purpling, and generally looking par for the course for an interaction with Shaw. Like any other time when this was the result, he doesn’t have much choice but to take Charles’ hand in his own, and, because Charles is right—anticipation _will_ make this worse—he pops the first joint back into place without warning.  
  
He’s not prepared for the long, low keen that rips its way out of Charles’ throat.  
  
“Sorry, sorry!” Frantically, he kisses against Charles’ forehead, over his eyelids, down the bridge of his nose—anything to keep the contact and to beg forgiveness for ever causing him to make that sound. That noise will grace more than a few of his nightmares in the coming weeks, no doubt.  
  
“S’alright,” Charles mutters, eyes clenched shut. Closed or not, it doesn’t hide the grimace that his whole face contorts into. “Bloody hell. That really hurts.”  
  
Another kiss, though this time Erik doesn’t pull back, but merely mumbles his words directly into the skin of Charles’ neck. “I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Not your fault. Do the other.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“ _Now_ , Erik.”  
  
Well, when he sounds like _that_ …. “Breathe deep.”  
  
Whether Charles does or not, he can’t rightly tell: making certain that he himself keeps breathing is almost more than he can handle at the moment. That, coupled with cradling Charles’ other hand in his own and preparing to pop the thumb back into its proper place—that’s the limit of what he can handle.  
  
Thank god it wasn’t a shoulder. Those are hell to get back into place, and sometimes it takes a couple tries. Thumbs are comparatively easy.  
  
Less easy? Hearing Charles choke down his noises when Erik hurts him.  
  
“Fuck,” Charles spits out, which really just shows how much pain he’s in: he seldom uses that word, and almost never so baldly.  
  
“Done.”  
  
Charles’ head slumps backwards into Erik’s shoulder. This close, it’s obvious that his skin is damp with sweat—even the roots of his hair are damp. But Charles doesn’t protest a light caress, fingers through those locks—his hand comes away tacky with sweat. Doesn’t matter: he keeps stroking, scratching in circles, first at the roots, then pulling back to pass over the hair again and again until it’s flattened under his hand.  
  
“That hurt.”  
  
No shit.  
  
 _[Don’t be rude.]_  
  
No—he hadn’t—that’s not directed at Charles, it’s never at Charles, and Charles knows that, though Erik drops a kiss to his hair anyway, just in case the message ever falters and is forgotten. _[I didn’t mean it like that. I just—Shaw—]_  
  
 _[I know, Erik. It’s all right.]_  
  
Not all right at all, but not much is these days. Well… some things. He still has Charles, and that may well be the only thing for which he will ever thank Shaw.  
  
In his arms, Charles presses his shoulders back, testing. Small as he is, he isn’t _tiny_ , and he’s a good, solid weight, which, in its own odd way, will never fail to be comforting. It means he’s here, warm, alive, rippling flesh and bone in Erik’s grasp, and, more importantly, ruled by that astounding mind.  
  
“I like your mind too, love.” Grinning, he presses a kiss to the underside of Erik’s jaw, mouth lingering there, resting. Might as well stay like that: it makes it all the easier for Erik to feel it when his lips curve downward in a troubled frown. “You—“ A nudge with his nose, which quickly turns to nuzzling, “You—taste like—“  
  
“Killing someone isn’t always neat, as you well know.”  
  
Of all the reasons he loves Charles, this—that Charles never pulls away from statements like that, or from the man making them—may well be the reason that runs most deeply. “How did you do it?” he murmurs, bubbling the words out into Erik’s throat.  
  
Charles’ location is somewhat awkward, considering… “Through the carotid artery. Very messy. There was a lot of spray.”  
  
Charles kisses him over the exact spot, mouthing at his pulse. “Your suit is clean.”  
  
“I did it from behind.”  
  
“You did it with your hands, then. Not just with metal.”  
  
Never would he tell anyone else this. But Charles deserves to know. The ledger between them has long since disintegrated, but Charles keeps track in his own strange ways, genuinely caring about every person that dies at their hands. He _wants_ to know, _needs_ to, and the times Erik has refused to tell him, Charles has lain awake nights, often leaving the bed to pace and fret, making himself tea that goes cold, undrunk, until Erik wakes and gathers him up and pulls him back to bed where Charles shakes and won’t settle until Erik can’t endure watching it anymore: he always crumbles under that desperation of Charles’ to _know_ , and, as much as he might like to spare Charles from it, he always ends up telling him everything, no matter how gruesome.  
  
Every single time, Charles always cares, regardless of how guilty the person was, or how much he or she deserved it.  
  
Now he’ll have to care enough for the both of them; Erik has long since stopped internalizing his own crimes in anything more than a blanket sense: they’re all nameless, faceless people in a mass of wrongdoing. Sin is sin, and he doesn’t have time to name each individual crime. What would it matter? Those he’s wronged will never forgive them anyway. The only person he will ever receive forgiveness from is Charles.  
  
Kisses for _not your fault._  
  
Embracing says _he made you do it._  
  
Sex makes for _forgiveness, I never blamed you at all, and see how good it can be when it’s only us? Just because something is tainted doesn’t mean it’s tainted all over…._  
  
Erik blinks, once, before he closes his eyes and works not to think back to hours ago, in that hotel room, with all that blood. “I tried to make it quick.”  
  
“Deep then? Bled out fast?”  
  
“I put a scrap of metal through his brain seconds after I cut his throat.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
Yes, exactly.  
  
“But you got some on your face?”  
  
“Yes. I had it on my hand, and I was stupid enough to touch my skin. I cleaned it off before I left, obviously.” Not well enough, if Charles can taste it. Absolutely not acceptable—bringing home what he did.  
  
Charles makes an agreeable humming noise and slides forward, far enough that he can crane his head back over his shoulder and get a good look at Erik’s face. Erik lets him go, trailing his hands over Charles’ chest as his arms are forced to extend due to Charles’ movement. “I’m glad you’re home safe,” Charles tells him, with that consternated little frown between his eyebrows. Even at fifteen years old, he’d scrunched his brow up exactly like that—and he’s never grown out of it. With any luck, he never will: its warming—a fire to heat up next to, much like most parts of Charles, and it would be tragic to lose that. Yet another thing Shaw will have taken….  
  
“You want a bath?”  
  
Now _that_ earns him a smile. Good. “Please.” And a grin to boot. Hmm, cheeky.  
  
“Spoiled,” he mutters, setting his hands under Charles’ arms to boost him up. “Such a brat.” Not true, of course. There’s no one in the world who deserves nice things more than Charles does, and with the life they’re both living, no one would accuse either he or Charles of being spoiled. That huge inheritance that Charles has doesn’t mean a thing when he can’t touch it lest Shaw become aware.  
  
“Mmmhmmm,” Charles agrees, twisting a little but making absolutely no effort to take his own weight, preferring instead to let Erik move him about. It’s probably a lingering effect from the years when Charles was still small enough, and the four years between them meant enough, that Erik was, physically, protection by default: someone for a scared little boy to hide against, to be carried by, to essentially work out his own physicality in comparison to—all those things that a father or older brother might have done for him, but that Erik ended up doing instead because of the twisted mess into which they’d both been forced.  
  
“I hardly want to be related to you, Erik,” he points out, still twisting, enough this time that he gets himself around and tips over into Erik’s chest, leaning there, arms slung over Erik’s shoulders. It would be entirely endearing, if not for the fact that he’s quite obviously using it as a way to brace his aching hands. “We do a good many things that relations should never try.” A kiss, pressed upward under Erik’s jaw, followed by Charles’ nose dragging against his skin, rooting out pockets of sweat and swiping his tongue over them.  
  
No, they don’t claim relation. Thank god. That was never… even when they’d been too young for anything sexual to manifest, when Charles had been eleven and Erik fifteen, that hadn’t been—it was never—it wasn’t _them_. Charles had simply been _his._ There had been no one else, not for either of them. And from the time Charles had first curled up on his chest, crying out his heartache, Erik had been utterly lost, owned in every way. Such a weakness—Shaw’s goal, naturally—and that would be unacceptable if caused by anyone else, but it’s _Charles._ Charles, who damn well _rules_ him and _knows_ it.  
  
“You do have a lovely habit of giving me what I want,” Charles adds brightly, grinning and dropping another kiss, this time up Erik’s jaw line.  
  
He chucks Charles lightly under the chin. “Insufferable. Want me to carry you?”  
  
Nothing is wrong with Charles’ legs, but—well, the closer they are, the better they both feel, and there’s always been something undeniably comforting about having that solid weight in his arms, dragging on his muscles and physically proving that Charles is _here_ and _whole_ and _alive_.  
  
And Charles has never complained about being there, either.  
  
“You’ll throw out your back someday.” But he’s already tightening his arms around Erik’s neck, and when Erik bends down to sweep up his legs, he leans into it with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this numerous times before.  
  
 _Safe_ he thinks as they head through the apartment in the direction of the bathroom. They’ll be all right for the next few days. They’ll get Charles’ thumbs splinted, bandage up that cut on his forehead, and they’ll plan for Charles’ assignment, but everything will slow for the time being, and Shaw probably won’t be back.  
  
“Probably,” Charles reminds him, right as Erik sets him down on the bathroom counter, grinning—no better way to spite Shaw than to ignore the shadow cast by threats—when Charles fidgets at the chill of marble on skin. “We ought to be ready in case he comes early.”  
  
So much for ignoring that threat completely.  
  
“We’re always ready.” One hand unscrews the tap, the other thumping lightly against the wall, reaching for the metal of heater and tweaking it, just the slightest bit. After the kind of day he’s had, he’ll have a steaming bath if he damn well pleases.  
  
Normally, Charles would lean back, arms propping him up, feet swinging and kicking at the cabinets below the sink—but he can’t very well do that when he can’t use his hands, now can he? As a sort of compromise, he’s set himself forward, elbows propped on his thighs and hands resting in the space between. Already they’re dreadfully swollen, turning an abused shade of blue and purple.  
  
But Charles just shrugs. “It’s not so bad, really. It could have been a lot worse. That’s not to say I appreciate having my thumbs dislocated, but—I’m rather glad it was that, considering the alternative.”  
  
Rape. Erik shivers. That’s never an option if it can be avoided.  
  
Reaching out his hand under the water flowing from the tap, he flicks his fingers through the stream a few times, testing the heat. Good enough. Satisfied, he plugs the tub up and crouches back on his thighs to wait, watching Charles unabashedly in the interim.  
  
Charles watches right back.  
  
Evidently, he doesn’t like what he sees: that furrow between his brows makes another appearance, deeper this time, and his mouth bows downward, pursing, enough to legitimately be characterized as a pout. “You look tired.”  
  
Well, yes. “Thirty-six hours is a long time to go without sleep.”  
  
“What happened after you were arrested?”  
  
“Nothing much. Holding room at headquarters, interrogation—the usual.”  
  
“The usual.” He repeats it wryly—but at least he’s stopped frowning. “How charming.”  
  
“I’d say boring.”  
  
“Most people generally don’t think getting arrested is boring.”  
  
“I’m not most people.”  
  
“True: I don’t go to bed with most people.”  
  
As tired as he is, he’ll always be able to muster a smile for Charles’ truly appalling seduction techniques. But, then, the only person Charles has ever practiced on is Erik, and it’s not as though he’s had to work very hard: Erik is, he’s willing to admit, something of a sure thing.  
  
“Why, Mr. Xavier.” Making sure to pitch his voice low, raked over, which for whatever reason—at this point, he’s long since given up working to figure out why—never fails to trigger Charles into a downward spiral that bottoms out with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. And, yes, fine, he’s spent an obscene amount of time considering Charles in those terms. Sex. Sexual terms. Where everything becomes an innuendo. “Are you making a pass at me?”  
  
Charles grins. “Dunno. Am I?”  
  
“I should hope so.”  
  
“Mmm. Come help me take my clothes off?”  
  
So much for subtlety. That’s not seduction: that’s giving it away for free.  
  
Shaking his head fondly, Erik clambers up off the floor, one hand clutching the side of the tub to steady himself, and heads over to Charles, who is waiting expectantly, wearing that soppy, ridiculous smile that begs for Erik to lean in and press his mouth to it. Charles opens obligingly, grinning straight into Erik’s mouth, no doubt delighted by getting what he wants.  
  
 _/I_ always _get what I want/_ And damn if he doesn’t sound ridiculously proud of that. The “with you” goes unsaid. It always does. It’s easier to pretend this is their world, and that everything else, while it may happen, isn’t what matters.  
  
That’s true, in a sense: they’ve made this matter more than everything else, this time between them when Erik can begin working his fingers down the buttons of Charles’ cardigan, pushing it off his shoulders and enjoying the sensation of Charles shimmying his shoulders into the touch. He’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, which is shed with a quick lift of Charles’ arms, albeit with great care not to catch on his hands. “All for me?” he asks, nipping lightly at Charles’ pulse point, lingering afterward to drag his lips against skin. Obscene, silky—and Charles, lucky bastard that he is, managed to undergo puberty without having to deal with any sort of assault on his ridiculously perfect skin. Teenagers everywhere would be wildly jealous, or so Erik has been told. He had much more to worry about as a teenager. He was lucky if he even _got_ some face time with a mirror—he certainly hadn’t been about to waste it fussing over a blemish.  
  
But… it _is_ something of a hobby of his, cataloging all the spots where _Charles_ could be flawed—and isn’t.  
  
Such thorough examination takes a great deal of time with mouth and hands and tongue. Not that he’s complaining.  
  
Charles squirms under the touch. This many years, and he’s still ridiculously sensitive. “Well, I was thinking of asking if anyone else wanted a turn, but—“ The sentence is lost in the sharp squeak he emits when Erik bites down, not enough to hurt, but enough that, well—there will be no one else. Ever. And he does enjoy making that clear.  
  
 _/Not nearly as much as_ I _enjoy it when you make it clear./_  
  
 _/Tease./_  
  
“I’m not teasing. I’m giving you exactly what you want.”  
  
This is true. Wonderful, and true. “Trousers off. The tub’s almost full.”  
  
Doesn’t take much convincing: Charles lifts his hips readily once Erik gets his trousers unbuttoned and pulls them down, snagging them on his hipbones; but a scowl and a good tug later, they come free. Given the state of Charles’ hands, he’ll need help putting them back on in the morning for the foreseeable future. Though, Erik is not unaccustomed to dressing Charles—and Charles has never put up much of a fuss at Erik’s doting, so it can’t be an entirely one-sided pleasure.  
  
With Charles’ clothes shed, Erik makes quick work of his own, and, once done, he kneels by the tub, reaching in for the tap and turning it off, dunking his hand down into the water to check the temperature. Perfect. Nearly twenty-four hours now that he’s been dying for this, once it became clear that he was going to be detained much longer than he’d thought—and, god knows, holding cells make one feel surprisingly grimy.  
  
Also? Having Charles settle down between his legs, sprawled languidly back against his chest once Erik has seated himself in the tub is a definite bonus.  
  
The main attraction, actually: the water is probably the bonus.  
  
Spectacular, all that skin, the softness in the hidden places no one would think to look: up in the crease of Charles’ thigh, where his leg joins to his body; behind his ear; up under his chin. And a perfect, startlingly red mouth that puckers and sighs when Charles slips into the water; eyelashes fluttering and kissing downward, like a whisper or a breath, and always married to an easing of tension that never occurs unless they’re alone, perfectly the two of them, wrapped up in each other at the exclusion of the world.  
  
Dropping his head back against Erik’s shoulder, Charles rolls his face to the side for the sake of a kiss to Erik’s cheek. “Thank you, love: I always find you a most accommodating backrest.”  
  
“Mmm.” A kiss, brushed to Charles’ temple; he wrinkles his nose at the tickle of Charles’ hair. Perfection.  
  
They should wash. And they will, once they’ve just… been themselves for a little while, nothing more than soaking and thinking, and sponging up the other’s presence. Nothing better than this to cure the aches of an assignment gone wrong. Later, they’ll have to bandage Charles’ thumbs and deal with the future, but, for now: _this_.  
  
All this, with Charles radiating lazy contentment underneath the tiny shocks of pain and discomfort that he isn’t allowing to derail him. Most days, Erik is inclined to think that Charles simply _chooses_ to be happy. Hurt, abused, tortured—and still achingly perfect, blind to the world that wants to hurt him. All of him, lost in a place where it’s possible to turn the bad away and to smile, and to kiss Erik and curl up against him, where the world is good and no one wants to hurt him. It’s probably not healthy.  
  
But Erik will decimate anyone who tries to take it away.  
  
“I’ll kill him someday, you know,” Erik murmurs—how ridiculously detached he sounds, but hasn’t he earned it?—resting his head against the back of the tub, absorbing the cool of the porcelain into his skin with tiny skin-deep shivers. One hand comes up to caress languidly at Charles’ hip, stirring the water over their skin until it smoothes like a particularly flowing massage. “Someday.”  
  
Charles just snuggles in closer against him, turning his face into Erik’s neck and resting there. “What do you want to do after?”  
  
If there _is_ an after. But… Charles wants there to be, and when has he ever denied Charles anything?  
  
“Exactly,” Charles whispers, soft and ticklish against his skin—and, this time, all levity has vanished, rising up toward the ceiling with the steam. “You can’t leave me. If you leave me, I’ll follow you.”  
  
Which would be entirely unacceptable.  
  
“I don’t care. If you die, I’m going after you.” Not so much a whisper now, as a vehement little crusade, snapped out directly into his neck. Charming and sweet, Charles most definitely is, but he’s not to be underestimated. When it counts, he’s far harder than steel and titanium and everything else Erik can bend almost without thinking.  
  
He’s never been able to bend Charles.  
  
“Honestly, Charles, you get something in your mind, and you won’t be moved from it. That isn’t healthy.” But… he does stroke his hand down Charles’ thigh, thinking—but what is there to think about? There was never a question in any of this. Charles’ life is far too important.  
  
“Not this,” Charles admits, shaking his head. The bottom of his hair is dipped with water, and it brushes Erik’s shoulders, wetting them. “I won’t back off from this.”  
  
“You could have a life, Charles—a good life without me. If he were dead, and if it took my life to make that happen—“  
  
“No.” Erik’s own miniature mine full of the strongest substance on Earth: Charles Xavier when he refuses to be reasoned with. Damn near insurmountable—certainly not malleable. “I’d rather deal with Shaw for the rest of my life than be free of him and see you dead. Do you understand? I won’t _have_ a life after you.”  
  
“You mean you wouldn’t let yourself.” Why are they fighting about this? They shouldn’t be fighting.  
  
“No, I wouldn’t.” Prim and proper and absolutely unmoving, but, then, that _is_ Charles when he’s after something that he wants. Probably he never even pitched fits as a toddler, just sat there and refused. That… might not be so inaccurate, unfortunately, and there’s a good chance that this quiet refusal has come from learning very early on that crying loudly will bring no one running. “Do you understand me?”  
  
“You’re not exactly being ambiguous.”  
  
“Good. But I’ll make it clearer, just in case: you die, I’ll make sure I die too.”  
  
Words like that—it’s worse than being punched in the gut. All the warm water in the world can’t take the chill off that. “And how do you think that would make me feel if, on assignment, something goes wrong? How do you think I’d feel, lying there, bleeding out, and knowing that I’d essentially killed you with my own mistake?”  
  
“Then don’t _make_ a mistake.”  
  
Well, hell. Not much wiggle room _there_. Just… _hell_ —Charles is, ninety-five percent of the time, of such a sweet disposition that it shouldn’t be possible, all boyish smiles and big blue eyes, but there’s this five perfect—times like now—when he’s an absolute terror, even a touch cruel, and very obviously selfish.  
  
And so damn perfect that it makes Erik ache a little to think about it.  
  
Just— _fuck_ , that’s his boy, ripping out what he wants, scraping his way into total surrender, and doing it with his plush red mouth still brushing against Erik’s skin and his body relaxed in a bath, the perfect picture of what anyone else would _think_ submission is. But Charles Xavier does not win his battles by brute strength, but rather with perfect ease, best like this, actually, wrapped in manipulation as well as water and easy, loose muscles, and with a side of extortion—using one’s own life, really, Charles?—thrown in, and the thing is— _the thing is_ , he’s _good_ at it.  
  
He’s _spectacular_ at it.  
  
“Thank you, Erik,” he answers prissily, thinning his mouth and tilting his chin up, just in case Erik doesn’t already know how thoroughly he’s just been thrashed. “I appreciate that. Have I made my point?”  
  
“Don’t you always?”  
  
A little huff. “I like to think so.”  
  
“Good for you.” Which would be a lot less problematic if he didn’t truly believe it—if he weren’t absurdly _proud_ of Charles.  
  
“I can tell you mean that.”  
  
“Thank you for stating the obvious.” It comes out as a grumble, but Charles doesn’t bother to take him seriously. He’s settling down instead, pressing his cheek back into Erik’s shoulder and, from the corner of Erik’s eye, it’s possible to just barely see Charles’ own eyes flutter closed. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone straight to sleep in the bath. Fine, though: they’ll wash later.  
  
Sighing, Erik settles himself back into the crook of the tub, rearranging himself disruptively enough that Charles makes a vague noise of discontentment, though he doesn’t openly protest. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispers out into Charles’ hair.  
  
He’s answered by a soft snort. “Oh, hardly. We’ve just established what would happen _then_.”  
  
It’s not funny. Not at all. But… he’s chuckling. And, damn it, he’s so tired. So very, very tired, but he has this, and it’s perfect, and his life is broken, but he wouldn’t trade any of it when it got him what he has, because it’s _Charles_ , and that is worth anything—everything.  
  
It’s like he told MacTaggert: there is nothing she could possibly throw at him—that _anyone_ could throw at him—that would outweigh this.


	3. Chapter 3

“Someone named Charles Xavier here to see you, Agent MacTaggert. Says he has some information for you.”  
  
Moira glances up from the file she’d been previously scrutinizing. Damn Hendry case is a dead end, and Lehnsherr has disappeared seemingly into thin air. Needless to say, sleep is at a premium, and tonight isn’t promising to be much better. Plus, the countless number of chauvinistic assholes isn’t improving things. If they want coffee, they can make it themselves: she’s terrible at it, doesn’t even drink the stuff, and who the hell ever thought that being a woman automatically meant she knew her way around a kitchen?  
  
She’s not in the mood for this—whatever _this_ is.  
  
“Information on what?’  
  
This one—he’s some sort of new hire, right? One of those looking to work his way up the chain—and he’s never going to succeed if he looks this gobsmacked at every question hurled his way. “I—“ He blinks. “Um—“  
  
“I’m afraid he’s not in the position to answer that, Agent MacTaggert.”  
  
What the hell?  
  
Most people don’t stroll into the CIA with the air of a person on a Sunday jaunt. But, whoever this man is, he isn’t bothered—and he _certainly_ isn’t threatening. It could be the ridiculously frumpy tan cardigan that he’s layered over a crisp white-collared shirt, or it might be how he has his hands shoved down into the pockets of his navy slacks, deep enough to bulge the sides of his trousers outward, hands pressing against the fabric as his legs move, sauntering into the room with an obvious sense of unaffectedness that extends from his posture to how he wrinkles his nose and glances around the room, weighing the merit of his surroundings and apparently finding them wanting.  
  
“Thank you, Billy,” he says politely, giving the oddly dazed looking lackey a warm smile and a polite nod. “You may go.”  
  
Since when do men off the street have the power to order about new hires? “Wait a second—“  
  
But she’s only halfway up from her seat before Xavier is shutting the door behind—what was his name? Billy? “I’m afraid he wouldn’t be able to tell you anything further, Agent MacTaggert. Best that he leaves, I think.” And he honest-to-god looks apologetic about it—which, really, how can he be barging into her office while still managing to look as though someone has kicked his puppy?  
  
Oh, hell. Is he one of those people that no one ever suspects solely because he’s so ridiculously unlikely? He could be hiding bodies in the wardrobe right alongside those cardigans, and no one would ever guess, not when he comes off looking like a sweet-faced, entirely harmless youth.  
  
Frowning doesn’t change that: a tiny furrow appears between his brows, but his consternation is just as amicable as the rest of him. “Now, really, I’d hardly stuff bodies into my wardrobe. I’d at least have the decency to burry them. The smell would be far too off-putting otherwise.”  
  
Who _is_ this man?  
  
“Charles Xavier. Didn’t Billy introduce me?”  
  
“Billy,” she repeats blankly. This is—she—somehow, whoever this man is, he’s cornered her into _this_. Repeating things. Blankly. Damn it. The desk between them ought to be some sort of protection, but there’s something _other_ about this man, something that—just _something._ And a desk wouldn’t be able to stop it. “You—how did you even get in here? We don’t let people wander in off the street, just because they claim to have information.” There’s a screening process, and questioning, and—  
  
That consternated frown tugs itself straight and then continues upward, shoving his eyebrows toward his hairline. “You don’t sound as though you believe me. I’m almost insulted.”  
  
Oh? And what would it take to strike through the “almost”? “I have no reason to believe you. Answer my question: how did you get in here?”  
  
There’s always the phone on her desk, if she needs it. She could patch in the intercom, hope they understand what she’s trying to do….  
  
Xavier’s mouth quirks. “I wouldn’t bother. No one outside your offices remembers that I’m here. It would be a tedious bit of repetition if I had to wipe their minds twice.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Insane, then. That must be it. He looks like a darling, bundled up as an armchair academic with a sweet smile, but, at the heart of it, he’s mad. Wiping minds? Seriously?  
  
“I walked in. And then I… _impressed_ upon your coworkers the necessity of taking me to see you.” Pulling his hands out of his pockets, he—what in the world happened to his hands? Both are wrapped, not enough to cover much skin, but heaviest around his thumbs in the kind of set-up that a boxer might use to give his hand more stability. It looks like he’s trying to brace his thumbs. But, yes, right, hands out of pockets: he goes straight from there to pulling out the chair in front of her desk—not using his thumbs at all—and settling himself down in it, primly crossing one leg over the other and leaning back to regard her with the poise of someone raised in a society of perfect manners and dinner parties clogged to the roof with good posture and cut-glass diction and a whole mess of people schooled in hiding their flaws behind impeccable manners.   
  
“Quite right,” he agrees, settling into the chair. “Until I was eleven, that was precisely the sort of company in which I was raised. Though I can’t say it’s been so true since then.”  
  
Reading. Minds. Reading minds. As in, hearing every word she’s thinking, including this, and _pen, notebook, candle, insanity, sandwich shop down the street on the corner of—_  
  
“Broad Street,” he finishes tonelessly, arching one well-formed eyebrow. “And you favor ham and cheese. Do you believe me yet?”  
  
Impossible not to, when the truth is staring her straight in the face.  
  
But—it’s difficult to think with a pounding heart and the conviction that, any moment now, the worst will happen.  
  
But… to hell with it: the worst can’t be worse than waiting: _[do you hear me?]_  
  
Yes, he must, or else he’s bizarrely inclined to the kind of amusement that softens out his face and leaves a hint of boyishness that he might never outgrow. “Excellent. Then, if you have no objections, shall we move on?”  
  
“Who _are_ you?” Obviously not American. Not with an accent like that.  
  
“I _am_ American, actually, born and raised here, though my mother is British, as were most of my tutors, and as I wasn’t the most sociable child…” He shrugs sheepishly. “Well, I’m afraid it stuck.”  
  
She’s going to need a drink after this. Maybe several. But, for now, she closes the folder on her desk: Lehnsherr and the whole mess can wait. It will _have_ to wait. Because as disconcerting as Lehnsherr was? This man, if he wanted to be, is potentially more dangerous—worse, even, because he’d approach crime with a smile and sweetness: torture like tea filled with sugar and cream.  
  
Xavier huffs out a quiet laugh, ducking his head and peering up at her from under a set of eyelashes that are, frankly, wasted on a man’s lack of vanity. And… that’s a slightly awkward thought to have while the person in question is reading her mind, but, really, _to hell with you too Xavier, if no one has told you yet that you’re handsome, you probably haven’t gotten out much. It doesn’t_ mean _anything beyond the obvious._  
  
He grins. “Thank you. And I’ve been told enough to be getting on with. Which, incidentally, brings us back to Erik Lehnsherr, and, why, in fact, that whole ‘mess’, as you say, cannot wait. Also? Left to my own devices, I’d hardly be dangerous at all: as you suspect, I’m quite fond of tea, and would much prefer to spend my days with a good steaming cup and an engaging book.”  
  
“What do you know about Erik Lehnsherr?”  
  
As if that grin couldn’t get any wider: it’s nearly splitting his face, which is absurdly unfair, given how generally good-natured it makes him appear. “What do I know about Erik Lehnsherr?”  
  
“That’s what I said.”  
  
“ _Everything_.”  
  
Considering what Xavier can do, there’s the possibility that isn’t hyperbole. “Then do you want to explain why we have him at the scene of a murder?”  
  
The grin condenses, drawing in and pursing his lips: somehow, that’s connected to his general posture, and he sits up the slightest bit straighter, to the point of being ramrod. It must be contagious: she stiffens as well. “You don’t,” Xavier argues. “Have him as the scene of a murder, that is. You have him leaving the building where a murder took place. And, as of right now, Agent MacTaggert, I’m afraid that you are the only one who has any recollection of that.”  
  
Shit. He—she hadn’t _wanted_ to think Xavier was a criminal—thought it, yes, but a face like that shouldn’t be involved in crime. Not every criminal is gnarled and scarred, but, usually, there’s something in their eyes that’s _twisted_. Xavier doesn’t have it—but… it’s just—as disconcerting as Lehnsherr had been, this is ten times worse. His confession—it doesn’t fit. It isn’t authentic. It isn’t _criminal._  
  
A lock of hair has fallen down over his brow, into his eyes; he tosses his head to dislodge it. “I started out down at the lower levels, and I followed the trail up through people’s minds, and by this point, I’ve been through your entire office and across town to boot. It’s…” He frowns, “been a very long day. But, by this point, I’m confident that the only sources left that could connect Erik to this… are _you_ … and that folder on your desk.”  
  
Well, damn. That’s not a very good position to be in, is it? And it can’t possibly mean anything other than… “You’re going to wipe my mind.”  
  
 _He_ is the criminal here: he has no right to look as though he truly, genuinely regrets that.  
  
“But I _do_ regret it.” All earnestness and big blue eyes. “I don’t _like_ doing this. But… well, I think Erik explained it best to you, actually: if you care about something enough, you’ll do anything for it, and nothing else looks as scary as losing that one thing.”  
  
“I don’t actually think that explains much at all.” It certainly doesn’t explain how she’s still talking to the man that is about to rewrite her thoughts. She ought to get up, try to run, and while her backside has long since gone numb—shes’ too riveted to even shift in her chair, apparently—it wouldn’t take much effort to lunge for the door. Xavier isn’t a large man, and she has self-defense training. She’d have a chance….  
  
His brow furrows. “Don’t do that, please. I—it wouldn’t do any good, and I’d rather this not be any more unpleasant than it has to be. It won’t hurt, you know. You won’t even remember that I was here.”  
  
“That’s not very comforting.”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry.” Blinking, he looks away, off toward the corner of the room. That alone is enough to indicate his discomfort, but he can’t leave it there: he sighs a little, and runs his hand through his hair, shaking it back away from his face. “Would it help at all if I told you that Erik isn’t guilty?”  
  
“No. Because I’d think you were lying.” Lehnsherr is tied inextricably to that scene—the problem is proving it.  
  
Xavier must know that: he winces, still refusing to look at her. “No, he’s… he killed that man. But he didn’t—he didn’t _want_ to.”  
  
Oh? Intriguing, but—goodness, in what universe is murder acceptable on the grounds of “I didn’t want to”? It isn’t as though she hasn’t heard that before, but it’s worse, somehow, when someone like Xavier actually manages to make it convincing.  
  
“Just like _you_ don’t _want_ to wipe my mind?”  
  
One moment Xavier has the situation in the palm of his hand, radiating confidence and self-assurance, and the next he’s faltered, left looking… like a lost little boy, honestly. A hopeful one, at that: earnest and bright-eyed, partially desperate, enough that he leans forward in his seat, fixing her with a wide-eyed gaze and slightly parted lips. “Exactly! I—oh, you’re… you don’t really understand.” All the brightness dims, and he seals his lips back together, teetering backward and blinking away the earnestness. “Sorry—I—Erik sometimes tells me I’m rubbish at reading people if what they mean isn’t right there in their minds, and you’re rather confusing, I must tell you, because some part of you understands what I’m saying, but it’s awfully bitter, so I don’t think you understand at all—sorry, I’m rambling. But it’s that space between knowing something logically and feeling it emotionally—and you’ve done the first without the second, and—“ He sucks down a deep breath. “I hear thoughts, and sometimes it’s difficult to translate the emotions.”  
  
As if that ought to clear things up. He can’t have spent much time around people if he doesn’t understand the dichotomy between those two extremes.  
  
“I haven’t,” he admits, darting his tongue out to lick at the crease of the right side his mouth. “Just… Erik, and… a few others. And whomever I encounter for things like this.”  
  
That—no one’s life is like that. People have friends, family, loved ones. In today’s world, it isn’t possible to know only a few people—not unless something is fundamentally wrong. And… Lehnsherr is a murderer. Xavier has just confessed to that. Is it really so far outside the realm of possibility that Lehnsherr might have extorted Xavier somehow, made use of this gift—?  
  
“No!”  
  
Of all the things she’s thought thus far, nothing has startled Xavier quite so badly: he’s half off his chair, on the edge of the seat, shaking his head so fervently that his hair tumbles down messily into his eyes, until he rakes it back, once, twice, and then goes on moving until those locks fall right back down again.  
  
“No, Erik would never hurt me. Erik is—you don’t understand at _all_.”  
  
Evidentially not. “Then _explain_ it.” Or don’t, because she’s going to forget—but… that doesn’t nullify the curiosity, does it? There’s still the desire to know, retained or not. Though, the last part of that has her clutching the edge of her desk, so tightly that her knuckles whiten.  
  
“When I was eleven years old, my parents gave me to a madman.”  
  
As far as openers go, it’s most definitely unique, and… utterly disturbing. Already her gut is churning, as cold as if the inside were lined with ice. If the story starts like that, there’s little chance it will head anywhere good.  
  
“My mother was—probably still is—a drunk. I know she’s still alive, but I haven’t inquired after her in years. But… after my father had died, she’d gotten remarried, and she’d buried herself in the bottle. And my stepfather—he wasn’t a good man, and when he was offered things he wanted in exchange for me, he was more than happy to pretend that he’d sent me to school, when, in reality, he’d handed me over to the sort of man that shouldn’t exist, let alone be allowed to darken the doorstep of polite society.”  
  
He sold his stepson. That—people—that they exist like this, in this world—it’s this kind of people she’s always wanted to stop. Disgusting men like that, who would sell a little boy. Who would _buy_ a little boy.  
  
Xavier offers her a tired little smile. “You’re a good person. Thank you.”  
  
“How did you get away from him?” He’s here now. So he must have managed.  
  
That smile vanishes. “I didn’t.”  
  
Oh. _Oh._  
  
Sympathy comes first, which would be tolerable, if it weren’t impossible to ignore—and if it weren’t scorching in her chest. What Xavier is doing isn’t right, but it’s hard to blame him if he’d spent his childhood being raised first by parents that would give him away, and then later by the type of man he’s describing. Seeing degenerates like that over the expanse of an interrogation table isn’t quite the same as seeing their victims. That’s seldom part of her job. This… is unusual. Possibly more difficult.  
  
“Shaw—the man to whom my parents gave me—didn’t raise me.” The prospect alone is apparently reason for distaste: he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, same as if he were doing his best to scrub away something foul. “I suppose that, more or less, I raised myself… with a little help from Erik.”  
  
Which would account for Xavier’s obvious loyalty.  
  
Xavier nods. “But it’s more than that. Erik and I…” He pauses, worrying at his lower lip, eyes darting to the floor and back to her face. “That’s why I’ll do something like this.” He bites down so hard that his lip whitens, and the skin pulls. “Because Shaw will hurt him if I don’t. Do you understand?”  
  
No, but she’s beginning to. Xavier obviously isn’t here of his own free will, and it would seem that Lehnsherr is acting as a sort of hostage. Though, if there’s a third party, Lehnsherr may not have been acting on his own, and it’s possible… “You act as collateral for each other? For this… Shaw?”  
  
Xavier draws his teeth out of his lip gradually, skin springing back into place, reddening his mouth even more than before, which is something of an accomplishment. “Yes. Exactly.”  
  
“So… you do as Shaw says or he’ll hurt Lehnsherr, and Lehnsherr does as Shaw says, or he’ll hurt you.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why don’t you _leave_?”  
  
Stupid question. There are so many answers for that, for every battered spouse and abused child—there is _always_ a reason. She’s had training. She _knows_ this, but everything around her is detached, as cold as the desk under her hands, with that oddness that comes from a limb when it’s fallen asleep. Her whole body is shut off just like that, trying to take in _this_ : telepaths and murder, extortion, and how very, very abnormal all of this is.  
  
But Xavier hardly appears offended, despite being tinged with obvious sadness, and though he blinks a few times, working out that grief, at least to the point where it isn’t painful to meet his eyes, it lingers, just behind the blue. “You think we wouldn’t like to? We would, but he’d find us, and it would be a thousand times worse. The only way we’re leaving is if he’s dead.”  
  
“And…” The way he’s saying it—it sounds like a confession… before the murder.  
  
He nods. “My apologies, Agent MacTaggert, it was not my intention to… make this worse. But… I do rather a lot of lying, and I find that, once I stop, telling the truth is surprisingly addictive.”  
  
“Most people usually find it the other way around.”  
  
“Most people have no reason to see things the way I do.”  
  
He shouldn’t be so riveting, this man, this criminal, who, really, is the furthest thing from threatening. But Xavier has a mesmerizing stare, and, thrown together with that earnestness—it’s a deadly combination, and not a particularly logical one. He’s tied up in knots of complication, _interesting_ , but the sort of question that can’t ever be asked.  
  
“Do you think so?” He taps a finger against the arm of his chair. “I never thought of myself as especially complicated.”  
  
“I think you ought to reevaluate.”  
  
His lips twitch, wrinkling his chin. “Perhaps. In the meantime, if you’d be so good as to hand me that folder.”  
  
Hand it over? Absolutely not. There may be no stopping him, but that doesn’t mean she has to be complicit in what he’s doing.  
  
But of course he understands that, or hears it—and doesn’t show any great displeasure over it. If anything, there might just be a spark of admiration in his eyes when he unfurls himself from the chair and pours his weight back onto his legs, straightening up and closing the short distance between himself and the desk, plucking the folder up into his hand with the use of only his fingers—no motion from either thumb.  
  
There would be no point in making a grab for the folder. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t consider it.  
  
“Apologies,” he says quietly. “I assure you”—and he _does_ assure her, with that wobbling lower lip, worse than a chastened child, “that I take no pleasure in this.”  
  
“This” being how he runs a finger down the spine of the folder, flattening out his hand and catching the sides when it drops open. “Oh, dear. This picture really doesn’t do Erik justice. But… you know that. You’ve met him in person.”  
  
And what a pleasure _that_ was. Xavier is going to wipe her mind, and, yet, this still may be the more enjoyable of the two interviews.  
  
“Surely he can’t have been that bad?” But the soft quirk of his lips says that he knows Lehnsherr could have been. When she doesn’t answer, he huffs softly and begins flipping through the contents of the folder. “You’ll have to excuse Erik. He was worried for me at the time, and that tends to make him irritable.”  
  
Somehow, it’s hard to believe that Lehnsherr, worried or not, would be a particularly favorable conversation partner, even at the best of times.  
  
“You’re quite incorrect, I’m afraid,” Xavier insists, not looking up from his task, pausing only to lick the pad of his finger before resuming flipping through the papers. “Erik is a wonderful conversationalist.”  
  
Goodness, really? That—but, no—it shouldn’t be something that matters enough to ask. She… ought to stand up, tell him to get on with things. But… there’s still that curiosity. Stupid, so illogical, when she won’t remember, but…“Why are you telling me this?” Curiosity, her mother once said, would be her downfall. Wouldn’t Mother be so proud to see her now?  
  
Oddly, that stills him—not for long, but for the space of a few heartbeats. “I don’t know,” he admits—and he truly must not. No one looks so confused otherwise, head cocked to the side and eyes blinking too quickly. “I suppose you’re the first person in a very long time who’s wanted to listen.”  
  
“I don’t want—“ But—her hand drops off the edge of the desk, settling in her lap. Everything is dropping, falling, fast, like when the bottom goes out of your stomach—and like it always does at the onset of an especially bad lie.  
  
The worst part is that Xavier _knows_ she’s lying.  
  
He shrugs. “I do. But it’s all right. And it’s not really fair to make you listen, either. But I suppose it feels as though these things ought to be heard, you know?”  
  
Oddly, yes. The story should be told. That may be the cruelest part of all, in the scheme of things—all this that he’s suffered—and there’s so much he’s holding back, no doubt—and he can’t tell his story in any way that lasts.  
  
That earns her a soft smile over the top of the folder. “I think, in another life, Agent MacTaggert, we might have been friends.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes. Even Erik doesn’t understand why I’d want to tell the world, if I could. He thinks it’s best to scorn those who haven’t seen what he has, because he’s so sure the rest of the world is just like Shaw—that they’d hurt us just the same, perhaps use that very knowledge to do so. I do hope that someday he can understand there are those in the world who are like _you_.”  
  
Hooking the toe of her shoe up behind the heel of her other foot, she leans forward, propping her elbows on the desk. “There _are_ people who would care, you know.” No reassurance she can offer him is adequate, and maybe she shouldn’t be offering it at all, but….  
  
This time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I know. But I can’t believe anyone will ever get to hear it.”  
  
“ _I’ve_ heard it.”  
  
“You won’t remember.” And why does he look so very, very bitter—so very sad—about that?  
  
“I wouldn’t tell. You don’t have to—”  
  
“I believe you wouldn’t intentionally let anything slip.” One quick motion, and he’s snapped the folder shut, freeing up one hand, which swiftly dives for his pocket. “But things can happen, and I would never risk Erik for the sake of something so small as my conscience.”  
  
Most people would consider that a fairly large thing, actually. “Did Erik’s parents give him to Shaw too?”  
  
Xavier doesn’t seem to mind what is really a very invasive question, or else he’s too absorbed with drawing out a… lighter? Is that a _lighter_ he’s drawing out of his pocket?  
  
“Certainly not.” Yes, it _is_ a lighter. “Erik is German, and Jewish. Shaw found him in a concentration camp and brought Erik with him when he fled in the wake of the fall of the Third Reich.”  
  
Meaning that, not only has Lehnsherr spent the majority of his life in the hands of a sadistic madman, but he’s also been subjected to the horror of those camps. Some of the pictures she’s seen….  
  
That thought might go further, but it cuts off abruptly when Xavier _lights the file on fire._  
  
Holy shit.  
  
“What are you _doing?_ ” Damn it, her knee—the side of the desk is _hard_ —that’ll bruise—but it’s difficult to care when there’s a _fire_ in the room, licking up paper and envelope and crisping it to a light brown, curling and shriveling it up. It won’t burn the building—the bin he drops it into will stop it—but, just—he just—  
  
“I told you.” The look he gives her wouldn’t be out of place on a teacher regarding a particularly slow student. “I can’t leave evidence.”  
  
And this is apparently his way of making sure he doesn’t: lighting said evidence on fire in the middle of her office. As easily as he goes about it—steady hands, relaxed shoulders—he must have done it before.   
  
“I _have_.”  
  
Good to know. Pity she won’t remember this. It would make a fantastic story. Just when she’s thought she’s seen it all—but none of the people she’s interrogated have actually set anything on fire before—mostly because they aren’t allowed to simply waltz in without being searched first. But Xavier—a face like that, and no one would think he’s a budding arsonist. Funny, that seems like it would more be Lehnsherr’s game.  
  
“No. Erik would shred it. Possibly blow it up. Fire is too smooth for him. He likes sharp edges.”  
  
Is that supposed to be considered healthy? Xavier doesn’t sound particularly alarmed. But, then, maybe she missed it over the frankly deafening sound of her thudding heart.  
  
He prods at the bin and jostles the file—the fire is steadily working its way through government information—with the toe of his shoe. “Erik is angry. He has a right to be. And he’s very protective. It can occasionally be a violent combination.”  
  
“Violent toward _you_?”  
  
“ _Never_ toward me.”  
  
“And you’re sure he never would be? If you disagreed with him—?”  
  
“I _do_ disagree with him.” Another poke at what is rapidly becoming the smoldering ruins of what used to be her folder. A few pieces break off when the bin teeters, and Xavier has to reach down to steady it, stop it from falling. “And, believe it or not, I almost always get my way.”  
  
“I _do_ find that hard to believe.”  
  
Almost as hard to believe as the fact that she’s sitting here, having a conversation with this man. Though, in some ways it makes sense: Xavier is as talkative as Lehnsherr was silent.  
  
“Really, now, you only talked with him for a few hours, and not under the best of circumstances.”  
  
“He didn’t strike me as the type to concede much.”  
  
“No?” He shrugs, but straightens up quickly, relinquishing his hold on the bin with one final pat to the metal rim. The fire has all but burned itself out now, leaving a pitiful pile of ash in its wake. “I suppose in most cases you’re right. And most of the time I’m quite happy to let Erik decide matters and to follow along.” Apparently satisfied that his immolation of federal evidence is complete, he settles himself back down into the chair. “It’s a side effect of the age difference, I suppose: when we were first thrown together, I was young enough that four years was something of a large gap; Erik made the decisions because he was the one best equipped to do so. Now…” Is that honest affection—that slight softening around his eyes and the hint of a smile, thready, but alive? “Now I suppose I’ve gotten spoiled and rather used to being taken care of, and, I must say, it’s a system that works: in a situation like ours, there’s often not time to talk things through until after the fact. Erik knows my preferences, and I daresay he gives more thought to what _I_ want than to what _he_ wants. And, because he makes most of our everyday decisions, when I _do_ protest, he feels obligated to listen.”  
  
That’s a very dangerous game to play with a man who murders people for a living. “Does he know you manipulate him?”  
  
A tap to the arm of the chair; his nail clunks against it, and the noise echoes, heavy, around the room. “Yes. And he trusts that I would never do so in a way that’s detrimental to him.”  
  
“And is he right?”  
  
Leaning forward, Xavier props his elbows on his knees, leaving his arms to hang limply between his legs. His gaze is pinpoint, zeroing in on her with a level of intensity that wasn’t present previously. Sweet, idealistic Charles Xavier does not exist in this gaze. This is something stronger: pure steel. “Agent MacTaggert: if you still have cause to ask that question, you’re not as intelligent as I gave you credit for.”  
  
“Then you wouldn’t. Harm him, that is.”  
  
He shakes his head. “I would _never_. I would die for him. I would kill for him. I _have_ killed for him.” He pausing, musing, biting his lip and blinking. “And I’ve come very close to dying for him too. He is the only wonderful thing in my world, and I will do whatever it takes to see to his safety. If that means manipulating him, then so be it. I’ll happily play god—with all the guilt entailed—if that means I’m the keeper of Erik’s fate. If it means he’s _safe_.”  
  
Well, damn.  
  
This Shaw—he likely has no idea of exactly what he’s sitting on. If he sends Lehnsherr to do his killing, it logically follows that he thinks Lehnsherr is the more dangerous of the pair. But he’s wrong. He couldn’t _be_ more wrong. Xavier is the one who could tear this world apart. She tips her chin back and stares down her nose at Xavier, but for as much as it moves him, she might as well not have bothered. If he wanted, he could destroy _everything._  
  
“Then you’re very lucky that I _don’t_ want that.”  
  
And, in the space of those few seconds, he’s faded back into the shadow of his cardigan and his smile, and all that amiability.  
  
Whatever it is that they’ve been swapping—it’s over now.  
  
“I’d appreciate it if you get on with this.”  
  
There’s nothing more she needs to know.  
  
What she knows already is unbelievably bitter enough.  
  
“You don’t want to threaten me?” he asks, cocking his head.  
  
“No.” This was never his fault. So often, wrong doesn’t seem to matter in the face of particulars, when it’s a real person, with real, good reasons for his crime: and the sight of Xavier’s face—earnest and tired and desperate—covers a multitude of sins. “But I want you to promise me something.”  
  
A wry smile. “Yes?”  
  
The desk is cold under her palm when she flattens her hand, bearing down on it for stability. She’s shaking. Pathetic. Her mother would say _I told you so_ , and it’s intolerable, the thought of that woman saying with justification the things she always used to unjustly foretell. “I want you to promise me that, when you kill him—Shaw, that is—you’ll do your best to put back together anything you’ve broken. I know you have a trail of bodies in your wake, but, please, make their lives mean something. Make them _matter_.”  
  
His smile deepens, and he ducks his head, glancing up at her before wiping a hand over his mouth. The smile remains when he pulls his hand away. “Interesting.”  
  
The desk is too cold: she draws back, settling into the seat to wait. Will she wake up knowing nothing at all? Strange, that her mouth keeps forming words, asking questions. She doesn’t want to know. Not anymore. But, always, this incessant need for information, even at her detriment: “What’s interesting? What do you mean?”  
  
He meets her eyes unrelentingly. “Each time, you’ve always asked for the same thing.”  
  
What--?  
  
But there’s only a sharp fade, the world as a kaleidoscope, and a tumble of memories, before—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go after this. While it's mostly written, I do have a bit more to do, so I'm estimating about a week until this is finished up.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, all mistakes are mine, and I own nothing to do with the X-Men.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings.

“We don’t spend nearly enough time together anymore, Erik.”  
  
Eight hours into Shaw’s “visit,” and he’s already overstayed his welcome by four hundred and eighty minutes. From the first moment they met, they’d already spent more than enough time together. When Shaw was _born_ , that was preemptively plenty, and what was the world thinking, accepting something like Shaw into it without putting up a fight?  
  
It isn’t as though Shaw isn’t aware of his thoughts: if he weren’t aware, he wouldn’t know just where to jab to get the biggest spurt of lifeblood.  
  
“I know I’ve been busy, my boy, but I feel I’ve been neglecting you. We haven’t had a proper chat like this in far too long. Perhaps you felt that way too. Was that why you allowed yourself to be caught?”  
  
 _Allowed_ , as if he’d had any choice in the matter. Of all the stupid ideas—Shaw _knows_ that he didn’t _intend_ to be detained, but he’s serious in that he’s going to try to run this line of thinking and draw it out for all the pain and misery and irritation that it’s worth.  
  
“Honestly, Erik, it’s impolite not to answer a question.”  
  
There’s not enough alcohol in the world to make this visit tolerable, but downing the last of his glass is a good start. Glowering, he leans back in the sofa and eyes Shaw, who is seated on the opposite sofa, over the rim of his glass, but, beyond that, his options are fairly limited. This is always the worst of it: this feeling that his hands are tied, and that he simply has to endure the humiliation.  
  
“It’s also impolite to invite yourself into someone else’s home, but you’ve done _that_. For the last eight hours. Feel free to leave. Now.”  
  
True to form, Shaw chuckles and crosses his legs, kicking back and stretching his arm along the mantle of the sofa. With his free hand, he swirls the scotch in his glass, gazing down at it rather than at Erik. Can’t be bothered to give his prey the courtesy of a glance, even when he’s ripping up its life.  
  
“I think you’re forgetting, son, that this whole apartment belongs to me. You live here only on account of my generosity.”  
  
“If not for your particular brand of _generosity_ , I’d be able to get a job and a place of my own.”  
  
God forbid that would penetrate the thickness of his skull. Even if it did, comprehension isn’t the worst of it anyway: Shaw’s intelligent, and the reality of that twists and coils in his eyes along with his thoughts, hoarding that comprehension and lashing it back out at Erik when it’s least expected. He enjoys the torture that his knowing inflicts—it took no time to figure that out, back in Germany—and, now, just like then, he laughs, honestly amused—he always is, at Erik’s pain—and shakes his head. “And I’ve always thought Charles the one lost in his naivety. Really, Erik, you never would have made it in the world. You were too soft. Sooner or later, your powers would have manifested, and, if I hadn’t found you when I did, you probably would have ended up dead, too weak to do what was necessary to protect yourself. And Charles—“  
  
Hearing Shaw talk about Charles is always a bit like tasting poison.  
  
It’s a regrettable reality that it seems to be one of Shaw’s favorite pastimes. That and fucking Charles—or seeing Erik do it. Shaw is damnably fond of those things too.  
  
Shaw smiles, wide and open, teeth pearly white and ready to rip someone’s throat out. Just like a Colgate commercial… for homicidal maniacs. “Dear, dear Charles. Can you imagine where he’d be, if I hadn’t found him?”  
  
“Probably graduated and off displaying genius the rest of us can only hope for.” Fuck him, thinking he can take any credit for Charles’ brilliance: it’s a truly astounding show of self-restraint that keeps the glass in his hand from launching at Shaw’s head.  
  
Abstaining becomes significantly more difficult when Shaw laughs, waving his hand and dismissing the suggestion entirely. Like it doesn’t matter. Like _Charles_ doesn’t matter.  
  
Unforgiveable.  
  
“Is he off on that again? Dear me: I thought he’d gotten over the notion that he needed schooling. Our Charles is already too smart for his own good.”  
  
“He’s not _our_ anything.” Erik’s, yes, but no more than he’s Charles’. Which is to say, entirely, but voluntarily, and that makes all the difference.  
  
“Oh, honestly, Erik.” It’s one of _those_ days, apparently: where Shaw is patronizing and self-righteous, and—at least it’s not sadism today. Though it’s gotten much less since Erik got older, it’s not out of the question that Shaw might drag him down to the lab, see how much pain he has to be in before he starts being able to move metals with low levels of magnetism. Worse, even, when he restrains Charles in order to force him to watch. “What else _would_ he be but ours?” Another swirl of the liquid in his glass, though this time he eyes Erik off to the side. “You always complain so ardently about everything I’ve taken away from you: perhaps you ought to recall that _I_ was the one who gave you Charles in the first place.”  
  
Yes. That twisted, vicious attempt to manipulate him that had blossomed into _Charles_ , in ways Shaw could never imagine. But even that is a double-edged sword. Charles could have had a life. Instead, he has Erik.  
  
No matter what Charles insists, it isn’t a good trade.  
  
“He was such a little thing. Fascinating, though—I could never get him to cry. Ought to tell you something about how he was raised, hmm? I think I did him a favor, giving him to you. All that money, but I’m sure he was never before so spoiled as you’ve made him. He only ever cries when you’re present, you know.”  
  
Which only goes to show that Shaw doesn’t understand the nature of affection at all. Not much of a surprise there.  
  
“It’s because of you, you know, that he has such ridiculous ideas about the world. It’s all those books you buy him.” He sighs theatrically. “But you always did coddle him dreadfully, even at the beginning.” His face slips into the slightly removed expression that’s usually induced by the recollection of fond memories. “Ridiculous. All those times you told him stories until he’d sleep, or stole him things while on assignments—quite spoiled, I’ll tell you.” Certainly he will: because no one would ever accuse Shaw of keeping his opinions to himself.  
  
God forbid they’d ever be that lucky.  
  
“He was eleven years old,” he snaps. Charles is always telling him not to engage but— “And you kept him locked in a room most days until I’d come back from running whatever errand you set. What the hell else did he have to do other than entertain himself with whatever I brought him?”  
  
Charles’ first chess set. The dog-eared copy of _Origins of Species_ that Charles always keeps close at hand, even though Erik has long since bought him a new one. The sketchbook meant for drawing that somehow turned into a design booklet for experiments Charles would like to run someday. The model airplane kit that’s now on the top shelf of their closet. All of it, stolen for Charles because he couldn’t get it himself, locked away as he was, his life acting as collateral.  
  
Charles was Erik’s, so long as Erik came back.  
  
Funny, but he never considered running.  
  
Shuddering—don’t show it, _never_ show it—he forces himself not to think back on that too deeply. But… it’s never that easy. That reason-crippling attachment—it’s the only reason Shaw ever gave Charles to him in the first place, attaching Erik to something of his own that has meaning, that can be held over his head.  
  
And it’s probably the most effective thing Shaw has ever done.  
  
Doesn’t he just know it too, the bastard: there’s no denying that this conversation is going exactly as he wants it to go. Everything always _does._ That wide smile hasn’t faded, and his eyes—blue like Charles’, but so much colder—are sparkling with a sick sense of satisfaction. “And so spoiled in bed too!”  
  
He’s really going for the kill today—and he’s managed to find the jugular. Charles would tell him to ignore any and all taunts. But he’s tensing, and the leather of the couch has begun to feel unbearably oppressive and sticky against his skin. The very air itself always smothers when Shaw is present, so it’s hardly a shock that actual tangible things do as well.  
  
“It’s very sweet, the way you attend to him, Erik, but an ass like that is made to be—“  
  
“Do you have a point?” Shut up. Just shut up.  
  
To hell with the blinding grin he receives in return. It means he’s lost, that Shaw has gotten the rise he wanted, but Charles is not a piece of meat, and—  
  
He sucks down a deep breath, curling his fingers into the leather of the couch. Someday, he’ll rip Shaw’s lying lips clean off—right after he rips off his balls—and Shaw will never say anything so degrading about Charles again. But even before Charles was old enough for Shaw to find him attractive—and though Shaw’s sins are extensive, pedophilia isn’t one of them—Shaw had been making disparaging remarks, often about Charles’ size, how he was tiny, little like a girl. And Charles _had_ been small: he’d fit perfectly against Erik’s side, curled between him and the wall, practically swallowed up.  
  
Thinking back on that—god, it’s been so long: but Erik had always felt better back when he’d been able to so completely physically engulf Charles. It’s harder now that Charles is grown, filling out into relatively broad shoulders and a solid, if short, build.  
  
“My _point_ ,” Shaw says slowly, curling his lips, “is that you’ve spoiled your pet, and while it’s endearing, I suppose, Charles hardly needs it. Why, right now, he’s out cleaning up _your_ mess. How does it feel to know that the person you’re supposed to be protecting is in danger because _you_ couldn’t be bothered to do a job cleanly?”  
  
“He’s in danger because _you_ have a sick sense of reality. It doesn’t have much to do with me.”  
  
That really is the truth, as odd as it seems, and if he could internalize it, Shaw would lose much of his hold. Unfortunately, when there’s a direct correlation between his own actions and Charles’ pain, facts don’t mean so much. But, as Charles is so fond of pointing out, correlation is not causation—and Shaw’s wide, splitting grin is foul enough to have some effect in hammering that home. Shaw is _evil_. He is sick, and he is cruel, and it’s on his face now, in how he stares back coldly, despite the smile that stretches his lips wide.  
  
Whatever Shaw means to say in response to that, it never makes it past his lips. Thankfully. But hearing whatever slurring invective he’d have uttered next is almost better than this—than this inevitable, yearned for and feared moment, when the door swings open, drawing the full attention of them both.  
  
Charles steps through the doorway.  
  
“Well,” Shaw drawls, clearly delighted. He props himself back against the couch, once again stretching his arm over the backrest, and tossing one leg over the opposite knee—like the show is about to begin. “Look who it is.”  
  
Charles appears to be in the one piece, so much as that’s possible. His cardigan is as frumpy as ever, but his shirt collar has retained some of its crispness, and, overall, he presents a fairly respectable—if faintly sartorially geriatric—figure. If not for the dark half-moons under his eyes—they never quite seem to fade entirely these days—and the unusual redness of his lips—he’s been biting them again, in that nervous habit of his that Erik finds just a little too sexually appealing to be worth ridding him off—he might pass for good health. That, and he’s a fraction too pale. A long day, then, full of objectionable—  
  
 _[She’s always so kind, Erik. Every time I go to wipe her mind, she offers to help me get free of this.]_  
  
 _[She_ is _helping—by letting you do what you have to do with minimal fuss.]_  
  
Outwardly, Charles blinks and runs a hand through his hair, displacing a few strands that defiantly flop back down into his face immediately after he removes his hand.  
  
“You look tired, pretty,” Shaw observes, and, for the first time since Charles has entered, Shaw drops his grin, turning it to a consternated frown. Disgusting. It’s not as though he actually cares that Charles doesn’t sleep well anymore, that he has nightmares, that—  
  
 _[Hush, Erik. He enjoys it far too much when you fight him.]_  
  
For now, yes. He won’t enjoy it nearly as much when he finally loses that fight.  
  
“It’s been a long day,” Charles answers neutrally, pacing a few steps into the room, angling toward Erik subtly at first, but, when it becomes clear that Shaw isn’t going to stop him, his step picks up, and he all-but rushes to the sofa, lest Shaw change his mind at the last moment before he gets there.  
  
Shaw merely takes a drink, grinning into his glass: there’s no question that he knows—and revels in—what Charles is doing.  
  
To hell with him. If he wants to sit there and watch—let him. They aren’t going to change for him. “Hello, love,” he murmurs once Charles settles directly against his hip, snuggling up against his side. No subtlety at all. Alive and in one piece, though—that’s all that matters. It’s worth tipping Charles chin toward himself and dropping a kiss on his forehead simply in celebration of that. Charles is all right. Unharmed.  
  
 _[And what about you? Are you all right, Erik?]_  
  
 _[Fine. The majority of the day has been spent going over plans for future projects. Since Hendry proved uncooperative, Shaw is planning to go straight for the source. Frost and I might be making a trip to Russia soon.]_  
  
 _[You still don’t know what he’s planning?]_  
  
 _[Other than that he wants missiles in Turkey? No.]_  
  
A slow clapping from the other side of the room demands both their attention and sucks the sweetness out of the scene. “Touching show, boys.” Touching enough that it would seem to have made him want more: there’s that hungry, avaricious glint in his eyes, and though his hands are still moving, clapping together with exaggerated care, his attention is entirely on the two of them. “And tell me, Charles, how did you like going outside?”  
  
Charles tips his chin back. “I would have enjoyed it, if the purpose had been different.”  
  
Shaw laughs. “Perhaps someday. It would be so much easier if you’d prove yourself trustworthy.”  
  
If he’d prove himself _broken_.  
  
“God forbid,” Erik mutters, sneaking a hand down Charles thigh and holding on. It always feels safer, having Charles close like this, where he can feel every quiver of muscle.  
  
If Shaw would look away, would straighten up from where he’s leaned forward, gazing over at them—he’d feel even safer, then. “Ah, yes, Erik: indeed, god forbid you could behave.” A sigh. “You’re the one who’s ruined him, you know. If he weren’t so bent on listening to you, he might listen to _me_ , and then necessity wouldn’t demand that he stay here, locked in an apartment that seals him away from all those entrancing minds he so enjoys. Think of that. He could have the mental contact he really needs, on a regular basis, if not for you. Hmm, Charles?”  
  
Charles is silent, but his leg is shaking. All of him is shaking—anger and fear, both at once—and he presses himself a little closer to Erik’s side—if such a thing is possible, when he’s already so close. _[Look at_ me _, Charles, not at him.]_ And, to help, he reaches out under Charles’ chin, taking hold of the opposite side of his face and turning it toward his, until Charles is close enough to be kissed on the side of his head, right in the thick of his hair.  
  
But Shaw isn’t done. As much as he’s the paragon of casual—holding his glass in two hands, hanging it between his legs, both elbows resting lazily on his knees—his gaze is sharp, viciously predatory. “Why don’t you remind me of the rules, Charles,” he says, voice dropping several octaves. The hint of playfulness is gone, vanished like the insubstantial thing it truly is.  
  
Charles twitches and swallows, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.  
  
Shaw shifts in his chair.  
  
 _[Don’t do that, Charles. He likes it.]_  
  
A deep breath. _[Habit.]_  
  
 _[Then break it.]_  
  
 _[But_ you _like it too.]_  
  
Cheeky—and trying to lighten the situation. Unfortunately, there’s no real hint of levity in Charles’ mental tone—and for good reason. But it’s sweet that he tries.  
  
Shaw arches an eyebrow. “I’m waiting.”  
  
Again, Charles swallows, but it’s more determined this time. “I—“ He falters, blinking.  
  
Not good.  
  
“Go on.”  
  
“I am not allowed outside these rooms without your permission.”  
  
These horrible rooms, where Charles can’t think through the walls. It’s the equivalent of starving him, refusing to allow him access to other minds. There’s a good chance that’s why he’s so attached to Erik’s mind, but—it’s difficult to regret that, when he is so intricately woven into Charles as well.  
  
A nod. “Good. And what happens if you leave?”  
  
It’s unnatural how stiff Charles is, and, while he could keep himself upright without the support of Erik’s body, there’s no reason to force that from him. Not when he’s… not entirely equipped to support himself. Years of conditioning will do that. When these rules have associations as deeply ingrained as they are in Charles, there’s no way to avoid the weak knees that go along with one of Shaw’s sick catechism-esque recitations.  
  
 _[Don’t think about anything else but the words. Everything else is only memories. It isn’t real. Not anymore.]_  
  
 _[I can’t--]_  
  
Shaw clucks his tongue disapprovingly. _“Charles.”_ That’s a warning. And they only ever get one.  
  
Charles clenches his eyes shut and takes in a deep breath. “It will activate the implants in both my arm and in Erik’s. You will return us to where we are supposed to be. And you’ll never let me see Erik again.”  
  
Pretty effective, as threats go. More effective when Charles was, early on, usually forced to recite the rules after he’d made some small error—and then, on the heels of that recitation, he was made to sit alone, in the dark, for hours on end. No Erik. No nothing. Just the sound of his own cries, echoing off the walls.  
  
“Quite right,” Shaw agrees, and, in a parody of encouragement, he nods his head. “Continue.”  
  
 _[You can do it. Picture the letters of the words in your head. Nothing else. That’s an order.]_  
  
Charles’ breath hitches. _[Yes, Erik.]_  
  
In a perfect world, he could help Charles in a better way. But, in _this_ world, the residual authority from a time when Erik made all their decisions is the best he can do. Charles _will_ listen to him. When he’s like this, he won’t ask questions.  
  
It’s horrible when he’s like this.  
  
Same as if a pen were drawing them into the air, the words form in Erik’s mind, printed there by Charles’ thoughts. He’s projecting—losing control, but that’s all right, if that’s what helps him. It’s only a leak between the two of them.  
  
This time, when Charles continues on, the edge of his worlds have dulled, becoming almost robotic: “If, during her regular scans of your mind, Miss Frost ever finds that I have influenced you in any way, Erik won’t be allowed to eat. The length of time he goes without food depends on the severity of my transgression.”  
  
When Charles was younger, that was a cruel, cruel stipulation—more than now. He couldn’t always control his influence, least of all when he was terrified, and it was the easiest thing in the world for him to lash out in reflex when Shaw hurt him. A normal person might try to thrash when a scalpel is pressed to his skin, but, in addition to flinching physically, Charles is inclined to kick out mentally.  
  
There was one incident where Erik didn’t eat for a week, and Charles had cried and cried and cried.  
  
“Well done, Charles. Keep at it.”  
  
Just a little more, and this will be over. Charles can do it. He’s done it before—and not always pressed against Erik’s side like this, held tightly, head tucked under Erik’s chin. All things considered, this is one of the better circumstances.  
  
“The same is true,” Charles presses on, choking briefly, but pushing through it, “if, when I am allowed outside, I attempt to influence anyone, either mentally or verbally, into helping me.”  
  
 _Moira:_ the word spells itself into the space of their connected minds.  
  
“Very good, Charles.” Knocking back the rest of the drink, Shaw sets the glass aside and grins over at the both of them, infusing the air with his good mood and the miasma that inevitably follows on the mental plane. “Finish up.”  
  
“If you die, the plastic sensor—“ Always plastic, lest Erik detect it “—in your body will register the cessation of your pulse, and the doors on our apartment will immediately lock. Any attempt to tamper with the magnetic fields surrounding the lock will activate the implants present in both my arm and in Erik’s arm. If there is evidence that either of us has caused your death, Emma Frost has instructions to enact suitable retribution.”  
  
Shaw taps his finger against his glass, letting a pleased hum drift out of him. “Very good. I think that deserves a reward, don’t you, Erik?”  
  
For all Shaw says Charles doesn’t need any further schooling, he’s appallingly pedagogical in how he treats Charles.  
  
It’s a very appealing fantasy, the thought of stabbing Shaw through the head with a metal ruler, or perhaps choking him to death with an apple, shoved down his throat until it’s deep enough that he’ll struggle for breath around the lump of it, find that he can’t, that he’s plugged up and dying—  
  
 _[It’s true that, for the safety of everyone, he needs to die, but, really, Erik, I dislike it when you enjoy thoughts of killing quite this much.]_  
  
Yes, because he’s Charles, and he’s too good to be comprehended: but, thankfully, if Charles is back to arguing, he’s pushed through the mental trauma of the memories associated with his recitation. _[You have to admit, it’s a comforting prospect]_ he sends back toward Charles. Not anywhere near as comforting as having Charles _here_ , right against him, close enough to press another kiss to his head—but, it’s a sufficient second.  
  
 _[I appreciate that you find me more attractive than murder, darling]_  
  
“Erik?” Shaw prompts, though it’s no question—not where it counts.  
  
That’s not to say it doesn’t demand an answer: “If you really wanted to give him a reward,” he says, squeezing Charles’ side and fixing Shaw with as much ice as he can manage to fit into his gaze, “you’d let him have a bath and go to bed. He’s tired.”  
  
“Oh, no doubt.” And that’s the falsest bout of sympathy that ever was. “But he does have such trouble sleeping, you’ve said. It’s only kind to tire him out entirely, I think.”  
  
Someday, those eyes will be lifeless, and Erik’s mother won’t be screaming in his head any longer, and Charles won’t be radiating tension from next to him, lost in the beginnings of what they both know is coming.  
  
“No.”  
  
Shaw’s mouth twitches. “You fuck him or I do, Erik. Your choice.”  
  
That’s no choice at all. Exhausted as Charles is, nervous as he feels, there will never be a point where he’ll find fear in Erik’s touch—in the circumstances of it, perhaps, but it’s a small shelter against a larger storm raging around them.  
  
“You can have me instead.” Because he has to try. He gets to his feet, knocking his knee into Charles’ when he stands, and pushing Charles back behind him. Blocking Charles from Shaw’s view is the best possible option, and it carries the added benefit of putting Charles in a position where he can raise his hand to tangle in the back of Erik’s trouser leg, hanging on. If only Charles would stop there—but Charles never did leave well enough alone.  
  
 _[Don’t you dare, Erik.]_  
  
 _[Quiet.]_ Not for the sake of being unkind, but—well, cruel to _be_ kind. Snapping at Charles is worth it if it shocks him into backing away and keeping his head down.  
  
 _[It doesn’t.]_  
  
Shaw isn’t buying it either: he laughs, uncurling his limbs, slow—rippling and panther-like. He’ll pounce at any moment, but, until he does, he’s a mass of coiled power poured out into languid muscles. All that danger, couched in potential.  
  
“Promises, promises, Erik. But we both know you’re not as lovely as Charles.”  
 He shrugs. “Too many hard lines about you. You’re a handsome boy, for sure, but there’s not much pretty about you, and, I must admit, I like pretty.”  
  
“If it’s pretty you want, go find yourself a woman. Frost would probably be willing to try a strap-on, if you asked.”  
  
As cruel as he is, Shaw is remarkably capable of controlling his temper in the short term. He simmers more than he burns, plotting out revenge for slights: and, when he comes for a reckoning, he serves his vengeance with a smile, and only a little scalding.  
  
Much like this: “Such manners, Erik: I taught you better. But you never did learn when it was only your own skin at risk, did you?” A sigh. “I suppose that means we’ll forgo any reward and try something a little more… _instructive_.” What? No, that wasn’t what was supposed to happen—don’t look at Charles, don’t—don’t— “To me, Charles. Now. Pants down and bend over the couch.”  
  
No. No, no, no— “I’m sorry, I won’t—“  
  
Shaw smiles pleasantly. “Too late. Charles?”  
  
 _[Stay right where you are, Charles.]_  
  
It’s clear that Charles would like to obey. His fingers linger on the fabric of Erik’s trousers, twisting nervously, and his breathing speeds up—but Charles is the smartest of all of them, sporting what is very nearly a photographic memory, and he knows quite well what happens when he disobeys Shaw in something like this.  
  
Erik still has the scars.  
  
“Ah, very good!” Shaw praises, delighted, when Charles slips out from behind Erik, lingering with one last apologetic press to the back of his thigh before he goes. It’s sweet and affectionate, and it means absolutely nothing because Charles is _going—_  
  
 _[He’ll_ hurt _you, Erik.]_  
  
 _[Then you damn well let him hurt me, do you hear me? You sit your ass back down on that couch right the hell now, Charles—]_  
  
Five years ago, that might have worked. Once upon a time, when Charles still heeded his word like law, before he’d figured out that this was different, that this wasn’t like listening to Erik about everything else. And once he’d gotten a taste for disobeying Erik in order to keep him safe, that had been the end of it: Charles, in situations like these, now does precisely what he feels is necessary.  
  
 _[Usually you think it’s healthy that I’ve learned to say no to you.]_  
  
 _[Not about things like_ this! _]_ And not when Charles’ mental voice is thready in what’s the telepathic equivalent of a stammer.  
  
“Don’t dawdle,” Shaw quips, lighthearted, as though this is nothing more serious than afternoon tea. It’s chilling, how harmless his smile appears as he watches Charles undo his belt and trousers. There’s something _off_ about it, of course, but it’s nothing quite discernable, and it’s not anything that’s present in his muscles or expression.  
  
His eyes, maybe.  
  
Once Charles’ trousers and pants are around his knees, he steps out of them, sliding backwards and sitting down on the couch, hands in his lap—not to cover or hide, but merely where Shaw can see them, settled primly, like a well-behaved child.  
  
Shaw gives a pleased huff. “I’d almost think you’ve gotten used to this, Charles.”  
  
He will rip Shaw’s throat out, make him _bleed—_  
  
As far as either he or Charles know—and Charles _would_ know, having been in Shaw’s mind—Shaw has no gift for extra-sensory perception, which, in some ways, might have been the preferable option: admitting that he isn’t gifted simply means conceding that, by this point, he’s grown very familiar with Erik’s habits, enough that, when Erik makes to take a step forward, Shaw calls over his shoulder, “Stay where you are, Erik.”  
  
And he does. He _does_ , because Shaw has no conscience, and Charles’ eyes are bright with dread.  
  
No wonder: Charles knows very well what Shaw means when he moves across the room, making as if to head to the door. Oh, if only—but it’s never that simple. True, he opens the door—Charles inhales sharply at the feel of the outside world—but it’s no kindness: Charles wouldn’t hurt nearly so much if he didn’t go into this with his mind’s eye wide open.  
  
To the side of the now-open door, there hangs a painting: it isn’t particularly eye-catching in the scope of quality or taste. All of the decoration in their apartment is of fine quality, if utterly devoid of his and Charles’ personality—they didn’t pick any of it—and a painting of the yacht that Shaw owns doesn’t call for much of a reaction.  
  
The reaction comes from what’s behind it.  
  
Almost lazily, Shaw swings the painting open off the wall, revealing the safe behind it. He needn’t have bothered with the painting, but no one would ever accuse the man of being bland, and he does enjoy a good reveal: the picture and safe are something for his fingers to dance over, playing to the music of the hinges and the click of the lock as he twists his way through a combination that isn’t secret, in order to open a safe Erik could very easily break into.  
  
It’s about the _show_.  
  
“Ah, here we are,” he announces gleefully once the safe pops open and he’s able to reach inside, curling his fingers around the one object within. “It _has_ been a while since we’ve had occasion to use this, hasn’t it, boys?”  
  
Mercifully long. It’s a wonder this didn’t happen sooner.  
  
Cradling the object in both his hands, Shaw turns and grins, and though the expression never reaches his eyes, it does reveal a few of his teeth. The consummate performer: never _too_ overdone, and understated enough that a simple grin can saw through other’s confidence with ease.  
  
Once he’s made his way back across the room—and he takes his _time_ , drawing this whole charade out—he plants himself back in front of Charles, standing solidly, his feet shoulder width apart in preparation for any sort of fight.  
  
Charles only ever did that once.  
  
Erik—hm, well. The burn in his stomach may be pride, actually: he’s gone for Shaw’s throat more than a few times. It would really be something to remember, if not for the aftermath.  
  
This time, Charles is motionless, save for his eyelashes, which flutter down over his cheek, and the pained clench of his eyelids, when Shaw slips the suppression collar around his neck.  
  
Charles’ presence in Erik’s mind flickers, straining… and then peters out.  
  
Charles—Charles—  
  
No. Breathe. Charles is here. He’s _right there_ , right in the line of sight. But not feeling him in the mind is—is—  
  
Charles, Charles, _please_ —  
  
“There we are,” Shaw says, sounding pleased. “Now, Erik, if you will?”  
  
If. How charming. “If” implies choice. There _is_ no choice: only this bitter, biting fury as he forces his limbs into motion, moving toward the sofa, then into inaction just the same, as he files past Shaw and very pointedly does _not_ attack him. Charles—it’s always Charles, like a refrain in his mind—there, touch, that’s skin, Charles’ skin, soft under the pads of Erik’s fingers when he cups Charles’ chin, and, with a flex of his fingers, tilts that much-loved face up to meet his own.  
  
Charles’ eyes flicker open, and he locks his gaze with Erik’s.  
  
 _[I’m here, love]_ he sends before he can think better of it.  
  
Nothing echoes back. Only silence.  
  
Oh, god, the _silence_. This is—it’s worse than being blind, being deaf, this void ripped open by not hearing Charles. Charles is _here_ , right in front of him, but he doesn’t seem real, not when Charles has, for so many years, been a voice in his head just as tangibly as he’s been taste, touch, sight, smell, and sound.  
  
“Take a seat, then, Erik.”  
  
He does, directly next to Charles, and, because the next command is always terrible—it’s a parody of what they might normally do—he gets a hand under Charles’ hip and yanks Charles up onto his lap before Shaw can actually give the order.  
  
Like this, they’re back to chest, his face pressed to Charles’ hair, where he can inhale deeply and breathe in that fruity and faintly masculine scent that’s so wonderfully familiar. Charles prefers shampoos with ludicrous names like _flowering_ _passion fruit_ , says it reminds him of a tropical paradise getaway that is the furthest thing from their little apartment. As ludicrous as that might be, there’s something to the idea: Erik takes a deep breath, and while it can’t realistically pull Charles inside of his own body where Erik could protect him—there’s no actual escape to be had—it’s better than nothing, especially since this moment of respite won’t last. But, from here, he can hold Charles firmly around the waist and pretend, for the space of a few seconds, that Shaw isn’t going to push this further.  
  
Those few seconds vanish all too quickly.  
  
Even so, Shaw doesn’t rush into the execution of his sick design, nor does he have the need to, when everything is waiting on his command—and that’s the worst of it, sitting here, hanging on Shaw’s words, knowing that Shaw _knows_ they’re hanging on his words, and reveling in the power. That smug press of his lips threatens to give the game away, but, by some miracle, he swallows down his self-satisfaction long enough to affect detachment: there’s the facade of class to the last, even if he’s engaging in an activity better suited to a low-life brothel.  
  
“You know the rules,” he calls over his shoulder as he turns to seat himself on the sofa across the room. “Make it good.”  
  
There’s no chance that their definition of “good” aligns with Shaw’s conception of it—and, if it does, then he and Charles need to reassess their standards. No real chance of that need arising, thankfully.  
  
Leaning backward, Shaw sinks down into the embrace of the cushions, tossing one leg over the other and settling in. As pristine as his suit is, and as neatly groomed as _he_ is, he might as well be sitting in a boardroom, if not for the glint of anticipation that’s carving a space into the shadows of his face.  
  
“Charles: kiss Erik.”  
  
As always, things start out slow, and while that won’t last, the illusion of a warm-up is nice. If there’s no consideration of what they’re warming up _to_ , this could almost be pleasant.  
  
Of course, any pleasantry that either of them might have found inherent in exhibitionism has been stamped out of them years ago. This is a show, nothing more, and Charles—beautiful, astounding Charles—as he is now isn’t Charles as he is in their private moments, when his hitched little cries and deep moans are entirely for Erik, and the things that lie around them—never _between_ them, there will _never_ be anything between them—can be propped up into a sort of shelter that hides them away from the rest of the world.  
  
Anything else is work. Cold. Clinical. Something to be survived. They may be lovers, but, more importantly at the moment, they’re a team, and they’re damn good at this, when they have to be.  
  
 _Ready_ is the question mark that Erik draws into Charles’ back.  
  
 _Set_ is Charles’ answering squeeze from his thighs, clenching down on Erik’s legs where Charles is straddling them.  
  
 _Go_ is the period that Erik taps onto his back: an ending, in the sense that, from this point until the end of this debacle, this is only a show, stripped of those things that would usually be inherent in any sexual act between them. Survival is cold like that: like turning sex into calculation and into the maximum effect with the least damages incurred.  
  
Charles leans up to catch his mouth, arching his spine and twisting his neck in order to reach over his shoulder to make the necessary contact. By now the movement is achingly familiar, and it’s almost route to press forward, plastering himself to Charles’ back, in order to meet Charles’ kiss, to nudge Charles a little further to the side, where the flowing lines of his neck will draw that slight bit tauter, and hopefully please Shaw well enough to tip him over into finishing this horror event a few seconds faster.  
  
“Keep going, Charles,” Shaw orders, voice run through with an undertone of growing heat.  
  
It’s one of those days, then: those odd times when Shaw, for whatever reason, wants to see Charles act out a few scenes where he takes the reins and leads Erik. Fine. That’s good, actually: less chance of Charles being hurt if he’s the one acting out directions rather than receiving actions.  
  
The angle of the kiss isn’t quite right for Charles to properly deepen it, but he does his best, mouthing at the corner of Erik’s lips and tracing them with the tip of his tongue, until Erik opens and lets him in, sucking on what he can reach of Charles’ tongue. It means he has to lean up some too, nearly draping himself over Charles’ back—so much so, in fact, that it seems easier simply to snake his arm up under Charles’ shoulder and around his chest, clutching at the front of Charles’ shoulder with fingers that are quickly growing clammy with sweat.  
  
Charles wiggles suggestively: a nice bit of friction, but the depth of it is dead, lifeless in a way that doesn’t connect and leaves the situation cold and clinical. Not hearing Charles—enduring the empty buzz of nothing in his mind—sucks the meaning out of this, and—it’s good, because he and Charles are too attuned to each other’s bodies for it not to be, but it isn’t _right_.  
  
Things would be better if that meant there was no reaction. Unfortunately, with two healthy men in their twenties, a lack of reaction isn’t feasible, and the stirring in Erik’s groin, the warmth of Charles’ body—blood pulses, and the pulse jumps just as easily without a jump-start from the brain.  
  
“Charles, get Erik ready.”  
  
Not the most specific of commands, but years of familiarity have made specificity unnecessary. Charles knows what that means, and, breaking the kiss, he gamely reaches one hand behind him, sliding it between their bodies and down to Erik’s cock, gripping it and giving it a quick squeeze. His other hand lazily drifts up, groping back behind his shoulder until his fingers first hit Erik’s jaw, and, now that they’ve found purchase, continue on, tracing with a line of too-soft brushes all the way up to the curve of Erik’s ear. Lightly, Charles’ fingertips skim the curve, while his wrist and the upper parts of his fingers tease against the pieces of Erik’s hair curling nearby.  
  
The movement is a very clever cover, all things considered: Shaw won’t give them lube—not this early, anyway. Possibly not ever, unless they’re lucky, and there’s no guarantee of that. They’d best make do with what they have, and, as Charles is asking him to do now, that means using what they inherently possess. Nothing about the request is obvious, but this is _Charles_ : as innovative as he is clever.  
  
Hissing out a breath when Charles palms his cock again—the noise just loud enough for Shaw to hear, keep it audible, give him what he wants—Erik turns his head and nuzzles against the sweet white skin of Charles’ wrist. Careful, careful, this has to be done precisely right, or Shaw won’t find it captivating: he sets his teeth down delicately into the expanse of Charles’ wrist, biting only enough to convey his intention.  
  
There: that—the little hitch in Charles’s breath—that’s success.  
  
Charles fingers clench, spasming, and he digs them into Erik’s scalp for the briefest of moments before giving in and letting Erik release the grip of his teeth in favor of kissing his way higher, up into Charles’ palm. Perfect together, like this, and—horrible, to have Shaw watching, yes, but there’s satisfaction to be had in knowing Charles so well: well enough that Charles takes his cues and holds still, giving in to the concentrated laving of his palm that Erik undertakes, getting Charles’ hand good and wet.  
  
“Mmmmm.”  
  
When Charles makes noises like that—it’s damn near indecent. Beautiful.  
  
As sweet as Charles is, and as trusting—he ought to have a life worthy of that. If the world had any justice, he’d be living someplace empty of danger: a place that, though it’s hardly possible, would reflect the sheer faith he weaves through the motion of eagerly leaning back and resting his head in the crook of Erik’s shoulder, carving out the place with a sense of belonging. If there were time for Erik to crane his neck to look at Charles’ face, it would probably only show that Charles has closed his eyes. He almost always does, when he turns his face to Erik’s neck, nuzzling and mouthing wetly, as he’s doing now.  
  
Not that doing so makes him any less fluid when he switches hands—quite the opposite, actually. Charles has a grace all his own and he uses it to the best effect in situations like this, closing his newly spit-wet hand over Erik’s cock and beginning to properly stroke, now that friction isn’t a concern.  
  
Oh, hell. That—clinical, detached—all of that—it’s true, but sparks of lust are _sparks of lust_ , no matter the occasion, and that’s Charles’ hand; nerve endings don’t seem as willing to detach as the rational brain is.  
  
But Charles’ _mind_ …  
  
Like drinking salt water when you’re dying of thirst: this touch isn’t enough, isn’t the intimacy of Charles’ thoughts.  
  
“Well done, little one,” Shaw half-hums, sounding pleased. “Would you like something better than spit?”  
  
Meaning Shaw is enjoying what he sees. He’d never be so generous if it weren’t going to benefit him. Thank goodness for Charles, though: it simply makes _sense_ for Charles to do the talking when the stakes are so terribly high. Diplomacy and all those useless topics that have never proved their relevance somehow find use when wielded by Charles and his gift for turning speech into something smoothed and inoffensive.  
  
Though, talking may not be entirely the correct word: “Hmm?” Charles half-sighs, all wispy breath and relaxed sexuality, bizarrely wrapped up in innocence. How he never loses that innocence entirely, it’s impossible to say. “Oh, yes, please.”  
  
From over the curve of Charles’ shoulder, it’s possible to get a clear view of Shaw, and, more infuriatingly, of his lecherous smile simmering just under some measure of self-control. That mask flickers momentarily when he reaches into his pocket and draws out a tube of lube, tossing it onto the sofa beside Erik’s hip, but the fracture in his expression doesn’t last, and he’s shortly back to that infuriating venire of respectability.  
  
Charles is the first to pick the tube up, holding it expectantly up over his shoulder. Best not to disappoint him: discord at this juncture could tip their fragile balance. For now, it’s better to let Charles take the lead. If he starts to lose his control—and, despite how competent Charles is, it’s happened before—it will only be the work of a few moments to transition, to override Shaw’s ordered dynamic in which Charles calls the shots.  
  
But, for now, Charles’ plan is a solid one, and Erik reaches up and grabs a hold of the cap, steadying it when Charles twists the body of the tube, unscrewing it. A small gush of lube squirts out, but that was going to happen regardless, and this way it will have a chance to warm before it’s smeared anywhere sensitive.  
  
“Thank you,” Charles tells him primly, quite obviously in contrast to the hazier tone of before. If there weren’t proof already that they’ve a part to play….  
  
What a clever, clever man his lover is, dancing to Shaw’s tune while subtly crafting the steps to his own liking.  
  
Pity, how that’s bittersweet: what Erik wouldn’t give to be able to tell Charles that, right this second. If it weren’t for that horrid collar, that venomous, disgusting thing that will join Shaw in his grave—if, indeed, he gets a grave—then Charles would be bouncing back the feeling of Erik’s admiration, and they could catch themselves up in a loop, power through this disgusting show.  
  
But—they can do this. They _have_ to do this.  
  
So, _do_ it: the lube squelches between his fingers, smearing a bit on his chest when he accidentally bumps his hand against himself in an attempt to slide it down between them. He gets there eventually, slicking himself up first, and then moving on to Charles’ hole. His neatness isn’t much improved by Charles’ attempts to help, though that’s likely intentional. There’s the real sense that Charles is brushing their wrists together purposely, knocking skin against skin as he tugs at Erik’s cock, while Erik—he doesn’t have the patience of a saint, and if Charles doesn’t stop that, this isn’t going to last—smears the lube on Charles’ hole.  
  
Though he may know what’s coming, Charles nevertheless makes a show of jerking in surprise, the fingers of his newly free hand—lube tossed aside—flying back up to Erik’s hair and burying deep. One good tug gets his point across.  
  
 _Move this along._  
  
Fair enough. The sooner they start, the sooner they finish. That isn’t to say a little embellishment isn’t necessary: namely, his mouth to the back of Charles’ neck, just below the line of his hair. One good suck bursts blood vessels and pools the blood to the surface: the mark that will be visible for a decent stretch of time, and a little tooth sets it deeper still. Charles bucks against him, but by this point in their relationship there’s no mistaking attempted escape for over-sensitized wiggling, and Charles’ movements are very clearly the latter.  
  
Circumstances might be terrible, but there will never be a time when he doesn’t enjoy seeing his marks on Charles.  
  
If his mind were free, Charles would echo that feeling, no doubt, same as he’s done in the past. The sheer _number_ of times he’s done it—shivering with pleasure in Erik’s mind, in a haze of safety and warmth and shades of _mine,_ where he can absorb the safety of feeling owned by someone who would never seek to harm him.  
  
Never. That’s not a question worth asking—which is why it’s necessary to pause, to raise the hand not currently engaged with tracing Charles’ hole, to glide over the hand Charles has in his hair. One good press slots their fingers together, drawing Charles fingers out of the tangles and down lower, behind Charles’ back, where it’s simple enough to trace a question mark into Charles’s palm, and then to tap meaningfully with his free hand against Charles’ hole.  
  
Almost instantly, Charles gives him a thumbs-up.  
  
 _Go ahead._  
  
All right, then.  
  
Getting Charles to take his fingers was never a worry: the first one slides in with practiced ease, dips shallowly, and then withdraws smoothly enough. As hellish as this life is, he must have been some sort of saint in a previous one. Nothing less could have earned him the privilege of watching his finger disappearing up inside of Charles, nestling in, withdrawing, only to return seconds later to rub and twist.  
  
The problem comes in rushing, in swiveling his wrist with more haste than ought to be necessary, merely for the purpose of stretching Charles out as quickly as possible. It’s always a race to get as far as possible before Shaw loses his patience. A good show helps stave off the possibility of that happening, and Charles’ face must surely be the best of shows currently, but any risk at all is too much.  
  
Moving quickly is half of what this is about.  
  
The second finger goes in with a bit more resistance: the muscles of Charles’ back quiver, and his fingers grasp down on Erik’s hand, digging in with a hint of nail, though he stays silent throughout, gamely meeting the scissoring of Erik’s fingers with a slight push back into the pressure.  
  
“ _Oh_.”  
  
Now, _that’s_ fake—not that Charles isn’t pleased, but Charles has never been one to sound so weightless in the noises he makes. The moans that tumble out of him when they’re alone always have substance backing them: they’re often deep and guttural, and, even when they’re high and lost in breath, there’s a drag of nerves and feeling behind the noise.  
  
None of this falsetto moaning like a ten quid whore.  
  
But Shaw likes it. And Charles _knows_ that he likes it.  
  
Speaking of Shaw: this won’t last much longer. By this point Charles can take a third finger, but, to be sure, it might be good to steady him—get an arm around his waist. There, yes, like that, where he can hitch Charles up a bit higher on his lap, enabling Charles to spread his legs a little wider, hooking his ankles behind Erik’s calves. Like this, he can splay his fingers over Charles’ stomach and connect to the rhythm of Charles’ breathing. Monitoring is never remiss—not in this situation.  
  
Charles settles into it well enough, rocking back into the hand inside of him and—let it never be said that he doesn’t know his best angles: he arches, hooking his arms back behind him and looping them over Erik’s neck, scritching his nails across skin. Stretching will have the benefit of pulling all his muscles in the front of his body taut, and blessing Shaw with an enviable view.  
  
Under the pretense of nibbling Charles’ ear, Erik sneaks a glance over at Shaw. No surprise in what he finds: the man has enviable self-control—that’s about the only thing about him that’s enviable—and he’s precisely where he was to start—in his chair—with his legs only slightly more spread than before. If not for the very obvious bulge that’s straining against the front of his trousers, there would be no indication that he’s enjoying this as much as he undoubtedly is.  
  
Leave it to Shaw to prove that too: “That’s enough, Erik. Put him on his knees and fuck him.” His voice doesn’t hitch. He’s absolutely, unsettlingly composed.  
  
On the carpet? Absolutely not. “He’ll get rug burns—“  
  
“And I’m sure they’ll look very fetching on him. Do you need me to come show you how it’s done?”  
  
Son of a bitch. If Shaw wants to talk tutorials, it would be absolutely _delightful_ to give him one—complete with demonstration—on the proper way to kill a man. Start with the jugular, and—oh, for the love of—“ _Charles_ —“  
  
Shaw laughs. The noise tinkles like the sound of broken glass. “Good job, pretty.” As if Charles dropping to the ground with deceptive alacrity is cause for praise.  
  
Without the deception, it would be. Later, when they’re alone….  
  
“Do get on with it, Erik.” Lazily, Shaw slumps back in his chair, flicking his hand in Erik’s direction. The sick bastard hasn’t even taken himself out of his pants yet, but that filthy leer is enough to suggest that’s not far off. “Don’t make me tell you again.”  
  
 _[Are you all—?]_  
  
Oh. Wait. No. That’s—Charles isn’t—they can’t—  
  
Damn it all to hell.  
  
Whining a little—this one is closer to his more honest, authentic sounds—Charles scoots back when Erik kneels down behind him, positioning himself between Charles and the sofa, and wedging his heels against the bottom of the furniture. Leverage keeps him steady, and steady keeps him careful; careful is what Charles deserves.  
  
“Since you’ve already destroyed your desk chair, Erik, why don’t you put that metal to good use.” Such a disgusting, pedagogical tone. They aren’t children to be taught. “Give Charles a blindfold.”  
  
Shaw will _burn_ in Hell. Someday, _he_ will be the one blindfolded while Erik works him over with a knife. All that blood, pumping, spilling, when Shaw doesn’t know where the next pain will originate, and he’ll scream. Oh, will he scream. Loud and long, and he will hurt more than Charles ever has.  
  
He’ll hurt more than Erik does, right now, as he chokes down bile and summons the metal from who-knows-where in the apartment—it doesn’t matter—and, shivering, molds it to Charles face.  
  
Charles gives a frightened little squeak, but, beyond that, he’s silent, only tilting his head back a few inches and dropping it to Erik’s shoulder. After this long, he’s learned all-too-well how to steady himself when blind.  
  
“Charles, reach behind yourself and guide Erik.”  
  
Clumsy at first from lack of balance, Charles tips precariously. Erik catches him with a hand around his waist, holding him steady while Charles fumbles behind himself. His hands brush Erik’s stomach first, then lower at his thighs, fingers brushing lightly and patting hesitantly, working to find their way. They both know better than to let Erik help him. It isn’t what Shaw wants.  
  
And, for now, that’s important. Shaw gets what he wants. For now. But not always. It _won’t_ be always….  
  
Eventually, Charles finds what he’s looking for: he curls his fingers around Erik’s cock, tugging him forward and lining him up until the tip just barely brushes Charles’ hole. Another small whimper, and then Charles’ free hand pats Erik on the stomach, fingers flexing.  
  
Permission, then.  
  
Best to get this over with. Better yet to do it before Shaw gives the order.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Erik thrusts forward with one solid push, forcefully enough that Charles pitches forward, squeaking, and catches himself with his free hand, careful to keep the weight off his thumb. He needn’t have bothered catching himself at all: Erik’s grip around his waist is as tight as it was to begin with, and Charles doesn’t pitch into the ground as hard as he might have. Not at all, really. He’d never let Charles get hurt when it’s in his power to prevent it—and this _is_. Like this, he can protect Charles.  
  
Perfect.  
  
“What a magnificent ass you have, Charles,” Shaw murmurs appreciatively from—not so far across the room now. The sound of his footfalls follows his words, and while the carpet muffles mostly everything, there’s the rustle of clothing when he crouches down in front of Charles.  
  
That doesn’t stop Charles from jerking violently back into Erik when Shaw raises a hand to touch his face, running his fingers over the place where metal meets skin. Blindfolded or not, Charles will always know when it isn’t Erik touching him.  
  
Shaw merely scoffs. “There now, that’s no way to treat your benefactor. Give me a kiss, pretty.”  
  
Disgusting—and too close too—  
  
 _[E-Eri…k—?]_  
  
What the hell?  
  
Erik freezes, hands clenching bruise-tight on Charles’ waist. It’s too startling—enough to snap that fragile thread of self-control: his hips snap forward, and he jerks, slamming into Charles too hard and dragging out a whimper.  
  
“Sorry—“  
  
Charles’ whimper turns to a flat out cry when Shaw reaches down and squeezes his hand, jostling his injured thumb. “You aren’t to talk to him, Erik. You know that.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ you.”  
  
And, because he can, he latches onto Shaw’s gaze and glares.  
  
Shaw just laughs. “Such a foul mouth. What would your mother say?”  
  
Same thing she said last time, probably: _alles ist gut._ Everything will be fine. Darling boy, lovely boy, my Erik, everything will be all right. Stay strong. I love you.  
  
Only, thanks to Shaw, she never got to say anything but the last part. No surprise there: Shaw always cuts short any sort of happiness that he might have, excepting Charles, whom Shaw will never take. _Mein gott_ , he’ll slit Charles’ throat himself before he allows Shaw to take Charles away. The things Shaw would do to Charles, if he had him full time, with no promise of escape. Death would honestly be a mercy. If that’s the only way to protect Charles, like he couldn’t protect his mother—  
  
 _[Er…rick—E—]_  
  
That… isn’t possible. Charles can’t—there’s no way—  
  
The sound flickers out and dies when Shaw dives forward, pressing his lips to Charles’. It would be kinder if he were rough, but he’s soft, playing at being a lover, and coaxing Charles’ mouth open until he can dart his tongue inside, running along the line of Charles’ teeth. It’s revolting, spine-crawlingly bad—  
  
And Erik shouldn’t be feeling that. Those aren’t—they aren’t his own emotions. There’s a different imprint to them, and no matter what state he’s in, he will always recognize exactly to whom that sense of self belongs.  
  
It’s unmistakable.  
  
 _[Charles?]_  
  
A flicker of thought sparks briefly, but it fizzles—wait, no, that’s it again, sweet and firm like Charles always is, and overflowing with care. Charles—however he’s doing this, it’s amazing, like—like _Charles_. Amazing feats from an amazing person.  
  
 _[Can’t—Erik—can’t hold the connection—]_  
  
Please, no, don’t go away again. This is better—bearable—with Charles’ voice in his head. Being left alone—no, it can’t happen. Please. Charles needs to stay, safe and warm, tucked inside Erik’s mind.  
  
 _[Need—need your mind—need—let me in—]_  
  
The sensation is fuzzy, like radio static, but there, breaking through the fuzz. That’s unmistakably Charles—the same Charles who pants in time with Erik’s thrusts now that Shaw has released his mouth and slipped gracefully back to his feet. That’s no real improvement: finally, for the first time since he’s been here today, he unzips his trousers.  
  
 _[I need to—Erik—need to use your mind.]_  
  
This is—the feeling—Charles is tight and hot, and—breathing is difficult. If he can just _think_ —  
  
 _[No. Let me… think—think for… you.]_  
  
What? Charles wants—well, it doesn’t particularly matter _what_ he wants. If he wants it, and it doesn’t endanger him, he can have it. It—oh, tipping forward, plastered to Charles’ back with the tight, hot fit around his cock. Splendid. Charles can have his mind, maybe make this stop, and reset it to something clinical.  
  
 _[‘fraid not, love. Hold tight.]_  
  
When Charles’ mind comes, rising up and pulling him under its mental wave, it doesn’t feel like it usually does. This is coming from… _in_ him. There’s no hint of Charles pleasantly slipping into his mind. No. He was already there to begin with.  
  
And that’s not possible.  
  
How truly bizarre it is to float back, to detach from sensation, to recognize the impossibility of what he’s doing but to ignore it, drifting along with Charles instead; watching, his mental essence kicked back toward reclining, while Charles takes control of his body.  
  
Such a strange experience it must be for Charles, essentially fucking himself. Though, he does a good job of it. Hmm. Might be worth taking notes, watching what Charles does with Erik’s body rather than what Erik does with it. Does Charles like that tight little counter-clockwise motion he just pivoted Erik’s hips into, or is he only going for show? Something to ask later. Oh, and—that’s his own hand, on Charles’ cock, jerking Charles off. But there’s nothing to feel. There’s just—nothing physical.  
  
The physicality may have faded, but the mental is everywhere: Charles’ mind brushes against his own, invading all centers of the brain and tweaking… whatever it is that he’s after. That’s not quite clear. Nothing really is, and most especially when some of Charles’ mental essence is leaking, trickling quicksilver-easy out into—wherever it goes. Once it’s out of Erik’s head, it’s beyond Erik’s capacity to feel, more’s the pity.  
  
It can’t be toward Shaw, can it? Emma does routine sweeps, checking for Charles’ presence in Shaw’s head. Any influence, and the consequences—those aren’t worth thinking about. But Charles knows that. He wouldn’t risk that.  
  
What, then? Still no answers, though Charles’ essence continues rippling and sliding out of Erik’s head—but—that… wasn’t Charles. It’s only a small pull at first, but it’s his _own_ mental signature. Yes—that—he’s—that’s what it is. That _is_ him. He might not know himself as well as he knows Charles, but that innate feeling of self that’s creating an odd sucking feeling as it drains away is most definitely him.  
  
Without warning, it pulls taught.  
  
If asked later, he could never describe it accurately. It isn’t particularly anything—and there’s no exact parallel in the physical world. A grappling hook might be the most similar comparison: something that’s secured, digging in, and that is now acting as an anchor.  
  
If that’s Charles’ doing, though, then it’s fine. It’s all fine. Everything and anything Charles wants to do to Erik’s mind, he’s welcome to try. Because if he can’t trust Charles, then what’s the point of anything, really?  
  
Distantly, he senses Charles clamping down around his cock, but the sensation doesn’t vibrate like usual, and there’s no lightning race of sparks up his spine. This time, it’s no more than an academic knowledge. He’s on the verge of coming—and it feels like Charles is too. How wonderful for both of them.  
  
Except, when Erik does, it’s nothing short of awful.  
  
Fuck, that _is_ —is—damn it, slamming into a brick wall would have been better. That’s not to say he didn’t do something similar. The way his head is ringing—maybe he slammed into his own skull instead. All the sensation has rushed back, pleasure and pain, but there’s not enough pleasure in the world to counter that kind of shock.   
  
Under him, Charles whimpers.  
  
Ah. Yes. Charles, who, judging by the laxity in his muscles, has also come. _Charles_ , whom he is currently crushing with his body.  
  
Erik flops sideways, landing on his side and only barely catching himself on one elbow. Not especially well, unfortunately—that’s going to produce a rug burn, and likely a moderately nasty one. Charles’ knees are probably equally as torn up.  
  
Worse than any of that, though, is Shaw’s laughter, ringing in his ears. He’s like a monster under the bed, in those films where evil is easily recognizable, and where it takes on a face and cackles like all the venom inside is cracking and splintering out into the public space. He’s worse than the demented clowns in a funhouse—those horrid things that bob around and laugh manically while reflecting in every mirrored surface covering the funhouse’s walls. It’s not so far off: Shaw is certainly Erik’s childhood terror, and he was always—or so it felt—ever-present.  
  
“Really now, Erik, you’re not that old: surely you’re not yet at the point where sex should knock you out.”  
  
Easy for him to say. Whatever Charles just did, it’s still ringing in Erik’s brain, bouncing around and scrambling his thoughts. A minute ago it was definitely worse, but it isn’t fading as quickly as he’d like. Any longer like this, and his brain might just leak out his ears.  
  
“Open up, little one.”  
  
Watching Charles giving Shaw a blow job doesn’t promise to do much for his mental state, and it’s really quite a pity that, rather than targeting his brain, Charles’ meddling didn’t render his eyes temporarily defunct. Hearing would have been acceptable too, if only to block out Shaw’s grunts and the strangled moans that are oozing out of Charles’ mouth around Shaw’s cock.  
  
As much as he’d like to help Charles through this—it’s always been useful before when he’s stroked Charles back, little light touches that connect Charles to something other than Shaw—it isn’t feasible when he can’t properly right himself. Those obscene noises—wet and messy, and indicative of a talent Shaw doesn’t deserve to experience, considering how stunning Charles’ mouth is—are nothing short of torture, but beyond trying to snag a decent breath by which to center himself, he can’t get past the ringing in his head.  
  
Charles was there, _being_ him. And now he’s not.  
  
Now he’s… too far away, endangered, and—why won’t that ringing stop? But it should be over soon—and, yes, there: as talented as Charles is with his mouth, it isn’t much of a surprise when Shaw doesn’t last long, and Erik gets one good glimpse up at the scene in front of him—Shaw, never one for moderation in this arena, is all the way down Charles’ throat, headless of the tears leaking out of Charles’ eyes—before Shaw comes, hissing something inaudible under his breath.  
  
By the time he pulls out, Charles is well past his limits, and he sets about choking down air almost instantly. With the blindfold, Charles won’t be able to see, either—oh, Charles, no, come here, come—  
  
He finds Charles mostly by touch, though his vision is finally beginning to stabilize, and he pulls him down to tuck against his side, ignoring both the mess on the floor and that which is leaking out of Charles’ ass. They’ll clean it later, and, for now, the priority is capitalizing on what they’ve earned: Shaw has what he wants, and, as twisted as it is, Charles has mentioned that Shaw finds something oddly endearing in watching them curl around each other. Arousing, too, regrettably, but Shaw has already come: for the moment, he might find their embrace aesthetically pleasing without the edge of excitement.  
  
“Shhhh,” he murmurs into Charles’ hair, brushing the backs of his fingers down Charles’ cheek and wiping away the tracks of tears that have leaked out from under the metal. “I’m right here, love.”  
  
Charles nuzzles into the touch, shivering—only a little, thankfully—and slipping his hand around Erik’s bicep, clinging, and curling his fingers down into the flesh firmly enough to anchor himself. “Sorry.”  
  
An apology? Hm, so Charles _does_ know what he’s done. That’s actually rather comforting. An accident is far more frightening than calculated damage, and Charles would never harm him without a good reason. If he felt it was necessary to scramble Erik’s brain, then there was a goal to his methods, and, Charles, reluctant pragmatic that he is—amazing, how he can be so idealistic while rooting himself deeply in pragmatism—weighed the cost and found its worth.  
  
The question is, then: _why_?  
  
The noise of Shaw zipping up turns Erik’s stomach, but he’s very carefully quiet: bite down, draw blood in his mouth—whatever it takes. Charles is always the first priority, and this is how it should be, ignoring Shaw, wrapped up in Charles instead, breathing into his hair, smelling the slightly unwashed musk of his skin—all those things that hang and cling, and that make Charles familiar and _home_.  
  
“You may take his mask off now, Erik.”  
  
How generous. About time: he flings the disgusting contraption off Charles’ face and across the room, heedless of whatever it smashes into and breaks. Could be nothing. Could be something. Doesn’t matter. Shaw can fix it himself if he likes, though the derisive snort that bursts out from off to the side—Shaw’s general direction—indicates he won’t bother. Whatever.  
  
“There, darling,” he mutters, nudging his finger under Charles’ chin and tipping it up toward him. Charles blinks owlishly, pupils blown, but they contract with the light, ruling out any sort of head injury. Thankfully. Charles with a head injury is… problematic. As deeply entrenched as Charles is in the mental—he _is_ a creature of the mind—a head injury spirals him off into places where it’s difficult to reach him.  
  
It doesn’t bear thinking about—not unless they need to consider it. And they don’t. Not today.  
  
Once the black has receded to reasonable levels and the blue of Charles’ irises has widened back out, he offers Erik a watery little smile and exhales gently when Erik, finally able to focus well enough to properly study the tear tracks, brushes the remainder of the liquid off his face. His finger goes through it easily enough, slipping across Charles’ skin and up over his cheekbone, tracing the delicate curve of Charles’ features. They’re rounder than Erik’s own, softer: rather like Charles, with his good nature and sweetness.  
  
“I want the collar off him too,” he snaps in Shaw’s general direction, pulling Charles closer and fitting him perfectly against the curve of his body. Hips to hips, chest to back, and his kneecaps slotted neatly into the space behind Charles’ knees.  
  
If Shaw hadn’t been finished buttoning himself up, he likely would have ignored the demand altogether, but, as it stands, he’s just completed the top button, and, at this point, he’s always eager to survey his wake of destruction—though, not in the obvious way. Oh, he _could_ content himself with taking in only their bodies, draped over the floor, but—no, there’s never that kind of luck, not for them. Shaw wants the meat of the thing—breathe out, long and slow, and _don’t_ give it to him—exactly where he knows it is: lodged in that which he’s always enjoyed tormenting most. For years now, he’s done this: and, like always, he meets Erik’s eyes. His gaze is lazy, half-lidded, supremely satisfied—but he _would_ be satisfied. This is a woman dead on the floor; a crying little boy; a child tossed into Erik’s cell with him, because attachment equates to leverage; and years of torture—and—Erik—no, he won’t look away. Shaw wins if he looks away. Breathe, breathe, and don’t blink. Charles is—is—Charles is astounding, but the viciousness in Shaw’s eyes was never _for_ Charles, and that is another thing that is Erik’s fault, that Shaw hated him so much that he used Charles—  
  
Shaw’s lips curl into a vicious little smirk, but at least he looks away. Always, no matter what—it isn’t fair, that there’s no way to stop _caring_. If he didn’t care, he could stop Shaw from getting this _thing_ that he wants. Charles wouldn’t be a way to get it. He and Charles—they wouldn’t _mean_ anything, beyond what they could accomplish for Shaw’s organization, and they could simply be tools, rather than entertainment.  
  
If _Shaw_ didn’t care—as nauseating as it is—and Erik buries his face in Charles’ neck: if Shaw didn’t care, didn’t see potential, it wouldn’t be like this. _Son_ he’s always said. Like a son. And he’s never said that to _Charles_.  
  
“The collar,” he grinds out, clenching his jaw. Half the words are lost in Charles’ hair, but he forces himself to raise his head, to lock eyes with Shaw again. He will _not_ be weak.  
  
The way Shaw arches an eyebrow, so infused with delusions of supremacy, one would think he’s never been denied anything a day in his life—and that he never plans to be, either.  
  
That’s appallingly accurate, no doubt.  
  
“Yes, all right, Erik. You _were_ very good, I suppose.”  
  
Sure. Because Charles was controlling his body. Not that Shaw _ever_ needs to know that. Whatever Charles did, the truth of it will be buried along with anything else of the same nature. Possibly, Charles ought to erase this from his mind altogether. They’ll talk about that later.  
  
Digging down into his pocket, Shaw tugs his hand back out, the key tucked neatly between his pointer and middle finger. He wiggles it, playing a bit with the metal—damn him, _damn_ him, of _course_ he knows Erik can feel it—before flicking it in Erik’s direction.  
  
Thank god for magnetism: he plucks the key out of the air, zipping it through the space and smacking it into his own hand.  
  
Ten seconds later, the collar clicks open.  
  
Burning would be too good for a contraption so innately steeped in evil, but, since that’s not actually an option anyway, the best that’s possible is pairing like with like: he launches it back toward Shaw.  
  
It’s insulting, how Shaw doesn’t flinch, too used to Erik’s powers—too confident in his own control—to bother. It might be that he even enjoys this game, sapping the kinetic energy from the motion, ensuring that the collar grinds to a dead halt and falls, lifeless, into his waiting palm.  
  
“Are we done here?” he snarls, burying a kiss into the mess of hair at the back of Charles’ head. Shaw must have shoved his hands down into Charles’ hair: it’s messy, beyond Charles’ usual lack of care for it. A bath will put it to rights, but that necessitates ridding themselves of Shaw’s presence.  
  
Shaw’s already turned away from them, moving across the room to the safe. He drops the collar inside, closing up the door with a muted _clang_ : he barely twists enough to strain the muscles of his neck when he tosses a smug, “For now” over his shoulder.  
  
Not completely done, though—that would reek of predictability, and god forbid Shaw indulge in something so merciful. Rather, he turns fully, tucking his hands into his pockets and gazing back over at them, almost serene, and utterly devoid of any indication that, minutes ago, Charles was sucking his cock. Like this, the lines of his face smooth out: he could pass for younger—though, if he wanted that, he could properly de-age himself. Apparently, he likes this age.  
  
“I’m sure you understand, Charles, that if you’ve made any mistakes in clearing up this business with the feds, I’ll be paying Erik a visit.”  
  
Charles tenses, but he doesn’t flinch. Good for him. In so many ways, Charles has always been the stronger of the two of them, and—he will never be able to describe how proud he is of Charles.  
  
“No—“ Charles coughs. “No mistakes.” His _voice_ —it’s scraped raw and sanded with achiness that seeps out of his words and into Erik’s bones.  
  
But ache can be fixed, better than broken bones: that rawness will need tea, with honey, and a night of pure, uninterrupted sleep, but it’s not permanent. And surely it’s not as bad as it sounds. It never is with injuries like a chafed throat.  
  
“For Erik’s sake, I do hope you’re right.” Almost pleasantly—dare one suggest it, even _fond_ —he thins his lips, curling them back in a satisfied twist that’s halfway between smirk and smile.  
  
And then he leaves.  
  
Exactly like that. So easy. No fireworks, no trumpets, nothing to signal the departure of the single greatest source of trauma in their lives. The world isn’t like that. Murderers and rapists fly under the radar, are the men at the grocery store, are people’s neighbors, and it only ever becomes a production when people choose to see what they’ve been ignoring.  
  
The rest of the time, it’s a nightmare, forgotten in the daylight—unless you’re the one living it.  
  
Brush it under the rug. Deny it. Ignore it. Pick up the person who means everything—gather Charles up against him—and do something—anything about it, because no one is going to help, no matter what Charles would like to believe. No one would care, not in the way that means fixing it. Not—  
  
 _[People_ do _care, Erik. I keep telling you that.]_  
  
That _voice_. His first instinct it to stop and sink in against it, but he settles for a puff of breath and the easing of the muscles in his shoulders. This—that voice—is properly Charles, not inhibited in the bizarre strangled fashion from minutes ago with the leak through the collar. This is warm and languid; it’s encompassing safety, with the world slotting back together.  
  
 _[Are you all right?]_ he sends in Charles’ direction.  
  
Fondly, Charles bumps his head into the underside of Erik’s jaw. _[Yes. But I think the question, love, is, are_ you _?]_ A bit like a cat, his Charles, stretching and arching into his touches. It will never cease to be astounding how easily Charles takes and gives affection, considering the things that have happened to him.  
  
 _[I’m a little dizzy. You going to tell me what you did?]_  
  
Not that there’s any hurry. No one is going to bother them, at least for a few days. If they wanted, they could lie here on the floor for hours—and they well may. Charles is warm and solid against him, curled into his grip, and moving would be such an involved endeavor. They’ll move when Charles wants. Not before.  
  
 _[I appreciate the sentiment. But I’m not feeling much like moving either.]_ He mouths at the underside of Erik’s jaw, dragging a hint of tooth there, as though he can scrape away the taint that Shaw left. _[There’s no taint, Erik. You need to stop thinking that. Do you think that about_ me _?]_  
  
 _[Never.]_ It’s different. Charles is… so good, and Shaw could never touch that.  
  
 _[You’re a good man too, Erik. Do you think I’d love someone who was fundamentally evil? What you are—it isn’t just pain and anger. There’s good in you too: I’ve felt it.]_  
  
Perhaps. But it will never be as easy or as effortless as Charles’ good. There are flaws in Charles, of course, but—Charles is so very entrenched in twisting his flaws up for the good of others. Case in point being that charming manipulative streak that he possesses, that _[you’re trying to use right at this moment, Charles. Stop it. I’ve had enough of it today. For the sake of my sanity, please just tell me what you did to me.]_  
  
Charles huffs against his neck. It sounds almost like a chuckle. “I thought you were willing to wait.”  
  
“I was.” It would almost be worth laughing over, the way Charles smiles so guilelessly once he pulls his face back, though with just a hint of knowing. Brilliant. The knowledge, the man—all of it. Charles is so aware of his influence, and, brat that he is, he’s using that knowledge. “I changed my mind: tell me what you did.”  
  
Charles’ smile breaks wider. _[Is it manipulation if you know I’m doing it?]_  
  
 _[Yes. And it also won’t work.]_ But, even to himself, his mental voice is indulgently besotted. That doesn’t erase the firmness, but the tone lacks anger. _[Tell me what you did.]_  
  
Though Charles doesn’t seem particularly impressed with the command, he does twitch his lips a little and drop a kiss to Erik’s throat. As well versed as Erik is with Charles’ body language, he finds himself relaxing: Charles’ movement, when shaped in this context, is very nearly an acquiescence.  
  
“I needed to use your mind to cover my mental signature,” he admits finally.  
  
That’s interesting: they’ve tried using telepathy a few times with Erik’s mind as the base, but it never works properly, and it leaves Erik with a nasty headache, dizziness, and—  
  
Oh. Charles was using him as a conduit. Not just a cover for his telepathy, as he’s claiming, but an actual _conduit_. Though, Charles isn’t working overly hard to disguise what he’s done: a statement like that, it’s practically begging Erik to make the connection on his own. Lucky for Charles, it’s a difficult connection to overlook, when his head is pounding like this.   
  
But, physical distractions or not, he can’t quite stop the twinge of fear that runs through him. If Shaw finds out, if—  
  
 _[He won’t.]_ Charles’ hand traces up his arm. As consumed as he’d been in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed that Charles had let go of his upper arm. The spot is a little numb: Charles’ grip must have been excessively tight. Best get this conversation over with, then: a grip like that is a sure sign that there’s a hint of guilt lurking somewhere barely beneath the surface of Charles’ convictions, and it’s only going to fester the longer it stays hidden. “When Frost scans him, she does it with a lock on _my_ mental signature. It’s difficult to explain to a non-telepath, but…” He shifts, wiggling back against Erik. Oddly, the motion is infused with thought: Charles often gets excited when considering a complicated issue, and that leads to fidgeting. “It’s impossible to scan all of someone’s mind. She’d be there for days. But if she just looks for something that feels like me, it’s easier for her. Neater. But she won’t be looking for _you_. She’ll miss anything with your signature.”  
  
Which is tantamount to a confession that Charles has indeed planted something in Shaw’s mind. If it works—how amazing it would be if it works. But if it fails….  
  
 _[It won’t.]_  
  
“How can you be sure?”  
  
The reaction that question provokes is… startling: Charles tenses, curling in on himself, and flipping over onto Erik. The motion tips Erik onto his back, allowing Charles to settle solidly on top of him, face tucked into his neck and arms wrapping under his shoulders with his hands sneaking up and over to latch onto the area around Erik’s collar bones.  
  
Charles is small; light, he is _not_.  
  
 _[I’m not_ heavy _]_ he insists indignantly, setting his teeth down into Erik’s neck in warning. Not _real_ warning—the sensation of authentic anger is too well recognized by this point in their lives for either of them to mistake this for anything violent—but it’s a playful little protest with a flavoring of truth.  
  
“ _Schatz_ , you’re a fully grown man. Exactly how light do you think you can possibly be?”  
  
 _[I lay on you all the time.]_  
  
Fair point, and one he doesn’t particularly want to contest at the moment. Charles can stay put if he likes.  
  
“I _do_ like,” he mutters, removing his teeth from Erik’s neck and kissing the spot where they were.  
  
“Finish explaining.”  
  
And there it is again: that tensing, running up through Charles’ body and drawing him tight, so much so that his breath hitches for a moment, and he shudders. Even when Erik runs a hand down his back, he doesn’t relax, though he does hook one ankle under Erik’s leg, trying to twine himself closer.  
  
 _[Charles?]_  
  
 _[I—]_ Shaky, bordering on upset. _[I’m trying. It—it’s just—I think you’re going to be angry and—]_ He takes a deep breath, rising and falling on Erik’s chest. _[You know how you always wanted to drive that coin through his brain?]_  
  
It’s not something he’s likely to forget: a very large portion of his daydreams focus on that desire, and what he wouldn’t give to be able to achieve that. Slicing through Shaw’s brain matter, ripping up the very part of Shaw that’s devised so much of their torture—someday, perhaps, he’ll have that joy.  
  
 _[That’s… I—that’s what I essentially just did.]_  
  
Breathe. A heartbeat. Another one. He’s still alive, and functioning. But…  
  
 _What?_ That’s being jolted awake with a deluge of water to the face. It’s a smack when he’s least expecting it. Very nearly, it’s a sucker punch.  
  
Lunging upward, he tries to right himself, but Charles’ presses down, flattening him, clinging to his shoulders too solidly for Erik to easily push him off. The bulk of him is enough to act as a restraint, and Erik could toss him aside if he really tried, but it’s _Charles_.  
  
But… Charles has—that’s not something Charles would do—and he wouldn’t suppose Erik angry at him for it. Charles has killed, but it’s happened so seldom, and Charles _hates_ it. Hating Shaw—would it be enough?—but… yes, it _would_ be enough: Charles would kill Shaw. He _would_. But—surely it can’t have been done so casually as he’s claiming? There would have to be something more—some sort of giant reckoning, painful in its explosiveness, and surely not so quiet.  
  
And Shaw—Shaw walked out of the room. Alive.  
  
 _[For now.]_ That voice is quieter: a whisper in the brain. And—there’s that festering belief in his own culpability, finally beading up above Charles’s skin and thickening into—Charles, really? There’s an existing hint of sorrow, even for a man like Shaw. But Charles is always like that with killing. Doesn’t matter who it is. But— _Shaw?!_ How did he— _how?_  
  
 _[It was like the coin, but on a mental level. He’s hemorrhaging thought and memory.]_  
  
Fuck. That—it can’t be possible. All these years. And—now?  
  
 _[I didn’t know how to do it before. I—there were… things, that I needed to learn first. That I needed to_ do _first.]_  
  
Things. Just… things. That can’t possibly be considered an explanation. There’s no chance it’s one Charles believes he’ll accept.  
  
“I don’t… understand.” Any of it, really. They’ve never talked about any of this. Was Charles planning all this time?  
  
 _[Yes. But Frost—I couldn’t risk that she’d read your mind. I could lock everything down inside my own, but I wasn’t confident that I could do that for you. So, I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry.]_  
  
He shouldn’t have to be sorry. But… it wouldn’t be quite truthful of Erik if—if—frankly, there _is_ a tiny twinge of hurt at the idea that he could have been this separate from Charles, in anything. They’re… supposed to be bound together, and if he doesn’t have Charles, there’s nothing left worth bothering with, and for Charles to have been this closed off—  
  
 _[Not closed off at all, ironically. The only way for me to beat that collar was to link myself with your mind. Permanently.]_  
  
Raising his hand, he runs it through Charles’ hair, almost more for something to do than for the comfort of the touch. “You mean we weren’t permanently mentally linked already?”  
  
That earns him a delighted little laugh. “Oh, Erik, a mental bond—it’s not quite that simple, darling. I’ve been in your mind since the beginning, but… I’m afraid that, this time, I’ve finally left a part of myself behind. It’s like I’ve permanently merged myself into your brain.” He shifts uncomfortably, and the weight of—it’s that guilt again, and, this time, it’s overwhelming. “I—what I’ve done—neither of us will ever be able to fully separate from the other. I—I’m _sorry_.”  
  
Again. He keeps saying that. But… sorry? Why the hell would he be sorry?  
  
“It’s not as wonderful as you think,” Charles whispers against him. “You’ll never be able to block me out—“  
  
“Like I would _want_ to—“  
  
“And I’m going to overhear things you don’t want me to hear. I won’t be able to help it. And we’ll have to be careful. It would be… very easy, to get lost in _our_ own mind.”  
  
All right, yes, that’s a reasonable concern. They’ve always been able to revert back to separate minds before, if they wanted to do so. But this—the idea that he can never lose Charles—surely that’s worth it? “You already listen to most of my thoughts, Charles.”  
  
“Your _surface_ thoughts. I don’t rifle through deeper things without permission. Like this… we’re going to leak together, and you’re going to see everything about me; and I’ll see _everything_ about _you_ , right down to those things you’ve forgotten yourself. It may take a few months, but, eventually, we’ll essentially be sharing a mindscape.”  
  
For such a drastic procedure, Charles would have had to judge the side benefits to be immensely weighty. And, to not have discussed it first—to have made this call on his own—he would have also had to have considered the risk of discovery to be staggering. That, then, begs the question—  
  
“Why I would do it?” Leaning back a slight amount, he offers a crippled smile.  
  
“If you were guarding it this carefully, and for this long, then you must have waited until you were _very_ sure that it would work—and that you wouldn’t be caught.”  
  
He nods. “Frost would detect any mental wound made by my mental signature, even if I tried to hide it. But the wound isn’t hidden with my signature—it’s masked by _yours_.”  
  
Incredible. Charles is—there was never any question that he is brilliant, but this level of thinking, of preparation, and the sheer amount of effort it must have taken to meld two minds— _stunning_. “Were you always capable of linking our minds like this?”  
  
He shakes his head, setting his hair to flopping around Erik’s fingers. “No. It took months to lay the groundwork in your mind. You never knew I was doing it, but I _did_ spend quite a lot of time on it. Even then, as you saw, the connection through the collar was difficult. If I’d waited until the meld had taken better hold, it would have been clearer, but, once I actually initiated the meld, I couldn’t risk waiting: if Frost had dipped into your mind, she would have seen immediately what I’d done. I could hide preparation, but this was _active_ —my presence essentially thriving inside you. It had to happen as soon as I linked us, and, for the connection to initially be that strong, I had, as I’ve said, to do a lot of groundwork.”  
  
Speaking of ground, the floor is beginning to dig unpleasantly into just about every bit of skin it’s touching, but the idea of moving is still unfeasible. Stop this conversation halfway through—absolutely not. What Charles has done deserves every moment of his attention, and sore joints are the least of anyone’s worries.  
  
“We could relocate—“  
  
He taps Charles’ cheek lightly, cutting him off. “Why do it precisely when you did? I understand that Shaw had to be present so you could do it immediately, but directly in the middle of sex, Charles? Really?”  
  
Charles shrugs, lopsided, continuing on with his emotional disquiet. That’s unacceptable. There’s nothing for which to feel guilty. “People’s minds are never less guarded than when they’re having sex. That meant both you and Shaw would be at your easiest to reach at that point. It was the best time. ”  
  
Fair enough. But that still leaves the question: “What does it mean, when you say he’s hemorrhaging thought?” Hopefully something painful.  
  
Because, honestly? There’s a tiny part of Erik that feels almost… cheated. For all these years, killing Shaw has haunted so many of his thought processes, and the idea of spilling his blood—  
  
“That’s why I didn’t want you to do it.”  
  
What? He blinks, craning his head down to get a look at Charles’ expression. That doesn’t make sense, that reasoning.  
  
Charles tugs his ankle upward, running it over Erik’s leg, playing at a caress, though it comes out more as an absent-minded movement, nearly a nervous fidget. “You’ve never _enjoyed_ killing. I didn’t want you to start.”  
  
How… like Charles. That defies description, actually, that sort of thinking. In some sense, it’s offensive, that Charles is trying to choose his morals for him, but—if Charles is upset by that viciousness, and if Shaw is dead anyway, would it have been worth horrifying Charles, only for the sake of Erik’s own satisfaction?  
  
It shouldn’t be. But… the anger lingers. Shaw should suffer. It would be justice.  
  
“It would be, yes. But it would hurt _you_ too, in ways you don’t understand, to be the one to mete out punishment.”  
  
Almost against his will, a laugh bubbles up. Charles: dear, idealistic Charles, who just apparently _killed Shaw_ , and who is fucking condescending, and so deliciously good at twisting things as he likes, and—Charles is exhibiting no sense that he feels sorry about _this_.  
  
“That’s because I’m not. I’m sorry that I melded our brains without asking you first, sorry that I killed a man, but not sorry that I stopped _you_ from killing him.” And clearly also not sorry for the primness— _so_ condescending—of his tone. “You’ve done _everything_ for me, to protect me. Why would you ever think I wouldn’t do the same for you? Even if it means protecting you from your own actions, of course I’d do it. I’d do anything.”  
  
As if that were ever in question. Charles’ devotion is unshakable, but sometimes, his sense of what’s a threat simply is _not_ : “I’m not backing down on this: I wish I’d killed him. And I wish I’d made it hurt.” Blaming Charles for seeing threats everywhere would be unfair, given his background, but, damn it, _one_ murder—the one Erik wanted most—after so many others—it wouldn’t have been a threat.  
  
Charles snorts. “If wishes were horses…“  
  
Meaning, _too bad, because I stopped you, and there’s not a thing you can do about it now._  
  
Also? That’s very true, damn him. Despite the fact that Charles is still solidly on top of him, he raises a hand, wiping it over his face with a long sigh. All that brilliance, and he’s been witness to it for this long, and Charles _still_ gets the best of him. “Just… explain what you did to him.” With any luck, it might be some consolation.  
  
Just… all these years, and now… nothing. He never got to do it. Seeing his mother shot, watching Charles hurt year after year—and all of that culminates into… someone else. Someone else’s actions.  
  
“It’s like fast-acting Alzheimer’s, in a way, I suppose,” Charles admits, and, with the grace of a man who knows he’s won, he’s again begun to allow his warmth to leak through. All trace of his snappishness has vanished, and, like an apology, he presses his cheek to Erik’s, rubbing their skin together in slow slides of movement, and flexing his hands on Erik’s shoulders in what’s probably an attempt to knead at the muscles he knows are sore. “I’m essentially draining his brain. Eventually, he’s going to fall unconscious, but because it’s so gradual, it will seem to be a physical problem—no one will look in his mind for the cause, and, even if Frost does, the wound is covered by _your_ signature, not mine. She won’t find anything. So… a little longer, and he’ll forget how to breathe, how to beat his heart—and… he’ll die.”  
  
Dead. Permanently. It’s… too much to think about this soon. Practicalities are easier, better: “Frost has all the codes to our rooms.”  
  
“Wouldn’t you rather take our chances with Frost?”  
  
No doubt. Frost is vile—if there are real feelings in her, Erik has yet to see them—but their suffering has, as far as its possible to tell, always been largely academic for her. A means to an end. It’s Shaw she wanted to please, and, with him gone, she’ll undoubtedly attempt to use their skills for her own gain, but the outright sadism—the enjoyment of sex and pain—won’t be—won’t be—  
  
It won’t be there.  
  
They’ll—it will—it won’t happen anymore. Never again.  
  
“Exactly,” Charles murmurs against him. “Like this, we have a chance.”  
  
A chance. A chance is all they need.  
  
He and Charles—they can take a chance and make it something. It’s what they do. Together, as twisted as they are—  
  
“Completely mentally twisted up _together_ at this point, if you recall,” Charles adds, and, finally—how perfect, it feels like acceptance, like Charles relaxing into their reality—he leans up and pushes his mouth to Erik’s. There’s a moment of pause, but it doesn’t last: Charles used him, ignored his wants, and lied by omission, but—god, that should matter, shouldn’t it? If it _could_ matter—if it could be anything other than the solid conviction that he’s Erik’s—but it can’t. Matter, that is. That sort of blame isn’t who they are, and it’s not a type of sense that recognizable anymore: _this_ is what they are, wrapped up so closely together that any hurt Charles caused was as much to himself as to Erik.  
  
Charles pulls back a few inches, though not so far as to stop his breath from drifting out over Erik’s lips. “I’d never try to hurt you,” he whispers, blinking slowly and clutching Erik’s fingers so tightly that it hurts. “And I _know_ you’d never try to hurt _me_. Forgive me for doing this?”  
  
 Forgiveness, for taking away a kill he’s fantasized over since he was fourteen years old. Forgiveness, for playing God. But… whom does he worship, but Charles? Blaming Charles for acting on that, for thinking he could—nothing about that is justifiable, and… Charles is beautiful like this, a little godling, aware of his power, but sweet with how he wields it.    
  
With all of that in mind, an answer isn’t possible: instead, he closes the few inches between them, pushing their lips together and surging his mind forward, rushing up over the mental link, and spilling down into Charles mind. That’s the last of that horrible mental separation that Shaw caused, and how _wonderful_ , simply to think, to _know,_ that Charles is safe.  
  
Shaw is dead. Shaw is _dead_.  
  
 _[Never again, Charles, do you hear me? You_ never _do anything like this again.]_  
  
Vaguely, he can sense Charles’ hands coming to cup his face, though it’s lost under the rush of _loveloveDon’teverleavemeLove._  
  
 _[Never, Charles. It will always be us. You_ know _that_. _]_  
  
The answering surge of emotion—hope and love, guilt, conviction, and so many things that it’s impossible to keep record—is nearly overwhelming.  
  
But it’s _Charles_ , and it’s _perfect._ Charles, who so benevolently plays with lives as easily as he does pieces on a chess board, doing what he thinks is right with terrifying conviction. Charles, who loves Erik with a fierceness that pushes him to do these things. Charles, who has given them this chance.  
  
So: they’ll take that chance. They’ll run. Together, they’ll build something out of what they’ve lost and out of what they’ve endured.  
  
And that thing, whatever it is that they make?  
  
It will be better than what they would have had apart.  
  
 _[It will be beautiful.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me to the end of this. I'm very appreciative of any and all feedback I've received. 
> 
> As always, all mistakes are my own. If you notice anything particularly obvious (either stylistically or grammatically), don't hesitate to drop me a comment to let me know, and I'll do my best to fix it. This has been edited pretty thoroughly, but I have a tendency to miss things when editing my own work.

**Author's Note:**

> If at any point anyone notices that I've forgotten a warning, please let me know. I'm aware that the number of potentially triggery things in this story are... substantial. Also, this is unbetaed. Any mistakes are entirely my own.


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